


Long Way Down

by rahleeyah



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Sex, but not as much as you might think, but nothing too graphic, some discussion of murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 69
Words: 173,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22656283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rahleeyah/pseuds/rahleeyah
Summary: AU: When a case sends Lucien to a brothel in search of answers he finds more than he bargained for in the local madam. Clever and kind, she holds the key to solving his case, but as Lucien gets to know her he finds more questions than answers.
Relationships: Jean Beazley/Lucien Blake
Comments: 203
Kudos: 135





	1. Chapter 1

_18 May 1959_

"Long way down," Lucien said, peering over the embankment to the sluggish current of the creek below, the corpse of their victim barely visible beneath the now-bare tree limbs that criss-crossed above it. The trees' brittle leaves had scattered over the course of a long, dry autumn, and revealed the secret that lay decaying and silent beneath that roof of leaves at last. A farmer had found her, when one of his dogs had caught a scent and run baying into the underbrush; quite a shock for the farmer, to be sure, and for the girl's family once they were able to identify her, but for Lucien the discovery of a corpse here on the outskirts of town had been almost welcome, for it gave him an excuse to leave the drudgery of the surgery and the silence of his father's house in favor of more interesting occupation.

It was a dreary, dismal day; the skies had been besieged by a pitiful grey drizzle from the moment Lucien stepped out his front door, and as he leaned over the embankment rain dripped from the brim of his hat to land chill and foreboding in his beard.

Matthew Lawson was beside him, squinting into the gloom, and as Lucien spoke he gave a sort of grunt by way of answer. The faint sound of shuffling and swearing drifted up to them on the breeze; Danny Parks and Bill Hobart were struggling to pull the victim out of the stream, and having a rough go of it by the looks of things.

"You think she fell?" Lucien asked after a time. He didn't think so, and he was sure Matthew didn't either, but the question gave him an excuse to speak, and any sort of chatter would be preferable to the unsettling silence that had fallen over them.

"No," Matthew said. "You saw her head. The bank's mostly mud and grass, there's nothing that would have caused that kind of damage."

He was right, of course; the victim had suffered a catastrophic head injury, but in the absence of any rocks or boulders on the slope it seemed unlikely she'd sustained that sort of wound in a tumble down the embankment. If she'd been alive when she fell some bruising and perhaps a broken bone or two might have been expected, but what Lucien had seen when he'd scrambled down to examine her suggested something far more nefarious had taken place.

"She's been down there a while," he said. "We may not be able to learn much from the post mortem. This investigation is going to be interesting."

Matthew frowned; he did that a lot, Lucien had noticed.

"Somebody killed that girl, Blake," the superintendent said grimly. "You tell me how, and I'll worry about why."

"Of course."

Lucien straightened up and tucked his hands in his pockets, tilting his head to keep the rain out of his eyes. He didn't resent the reminder, not really. Matthew could be a bit gruff, a bit obstinate at times, but he was a good man, a good friend, and a damn good policeman. It was his job, to remind his sometimes unpredictable police surgeon just what their roles were. Later on, after hours, Matthew would come round and they'd share a drink and they'd discuss the case the way they always did, and Matthew would do no more to keep Lucien out of the investigation than he'd done already. He'd issued his warning because it was required of him, but they both knew when it came down to it he wanted Lucien on the case.

"Here they come," Matthew said, and as Lucien watched Danny and Bill began to crest the embankment carrying the victim's body between them. They'd wrapped the poor girl in a sheet, and an ambulance was already waiting to ferry her to the morgue. Danny looked as if he might be ill at any moment, but to his credit he was carrying on. The young constable was a fine lad, in Lucien's estimation; a bit naive, a bit inexperienced, but eager to learn and kind-hearted. The words Lucien would use to describe Bill Hobart were less generous, but it had been weeks since that last time Lucien had been called to clean up some bodgie Bill had roughed up on his way to the cells, and that was a mercy.

"Let me know what you find out, will you?" Matthew said, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Of course," Lucien said again. And that was that; they all knew their roles, all had jobs to do, and Lucien was growing more accustomed to his own by the day.

* * *

The girl had been found in the morning, and Lucien had nothing more pressing on, and so the post mortem was completed that very afternoon. As he worked he assembled a series of jumbled notes, and determined to put them all in a report the following day. Or that very night, if sleep wouldn't come; the typewriter in his office was serviceable, and would provide a more productive way to spend the twilight hours than drinking himself into a stupor. With the notes tucked in his bag he made his way out into the gathering dark, drove home with his head full of memories of blood and grim thoughts. It never got easier, seeing a young woman laid out on the table in the morgue, beautiful once perhaps but battered now, a hope extinguished. It was not often that the patients he examined had died as a result of violence; for every murder there were a dozen unexpected strokes or heart attacks, sudden deaths that while shocking were understandable in their own way. Murders were few and far between; he spent more time cleaning up drunks after bar fights than dissecting corpses. When they did come, the murders, he found himself almost as intrigued as he was horrified, for a murder meant a mystery, a puzzle, a riddle to solve, a more engaging question than the ones he usually faced.

When he was not working for the police Lucien kept regular hours in his father's surgery. That had not ever been his intention; he'd only come to Ballarat to settle his father's estate, sell the house, and gather enough funds to return to China and his desperate search for his family. But Ballarat had sunk its teeth into him; the prospect of a permanent address where he could receive letters from the private investigator he'd hired was an alluring one, and then Nell Clasby had come calling about her heart, and then other patients began to arrive believing that his indulgence where Nell was concerned meant he was open for business. His housekeeper cum receptionist Mrs. Penny was a garrulous old woman who could talk the birds down from the trees, and once she'd opened her mouth he'd lost all hope of leaving Ballarat. Besides the patients and the police, there was young Mattie O'Brien to worry about; the district nurse had been lodging with Thomas Blake prior to his demise, and Lucien could hardly have kicked the girl out onto the street. She stayed on a month or two, but living alone with a bachelor threatened permanent damage to her reputation, and she had eventually found a room elsewhere. Lucien had been sad to see her go - she was a lovely girl - but in a way it had been a relief, having the house to himself, not having to worry if he troubled anyone else when he shouted in his sleep, or banged on the piano in the still hours of the night. That's what he told himself, anyway, that it was a relief. If there was a part of him that hated the silence, he did his best to ignore it.

Mrs. Penny was walking out of the house as he was walking in; she told him she'd laid dinner on the table, and that Superintendent Lawson was already waiting for him in the kitchen, and then she'd scuttled away, eager to reach her own home, and Lucien did not stop her. Wherever she went, when her working day was through, it was bound to be a happier place than this.

And so Lucien made his way into the house, hung his hat on the peg by the door and dropped his case to the floor, and then ventured into the kitchen to join Matthew for dinner and a drink.

"Got anything for me?" Matthew asked as he stepped inside.

"It's nice to see you, too, Matthew," Lucien answered. There was no bite to his response; Matthew had already poured him a measure of whiskey, and there was a hot dinner waiting on a plate by his usual chair.

"You and I both know you can't wait to talk about it," Matthew told him, "so let's get down to it."

And so they did. Lucien settled himself in his chair, took a long sip of whiskey and a big bite of chicken, and then began.

"She's been down there about six months. Most of the body was in the water for that time, and she's badly decomposed."

Matthew frowned and put his fork down, as if he could not bear to eat with such an image in his mind. It didn't trouble Lucien; fifty years he'd walked this earth, and in that time he'd been a doctor, and a soldier, a prisoner-of-war, and a spy, and there was little that shocked him, any more.

"Cause of death was almost certainly a crushing blow to the head. The entire back of her skull is caved in. No material evidence there, though, I'm afraid."

"Any thing we could use to identify her?" Matthew asked. He took one wary bite of his potatoes, and then seemed to relax, satisfied that no more gruesome details were in the offing.

"She had long brown hair, and high cheekbones. That's about all I can give you, as far as the face."

"We've got a lad at the station, Ned. He's a fair hand at sketching. He might be able to come up with something, I'll send him to you tomorrow."

"It's worth a try," Lucien agreed. Ned would have to be quite the artist indeed, he thought, to create a picture from what remained of the girl's face, but it couldn't hurt. "Her clothing was interesting. We didn't find any shoes, but that's not to say she wasn't wearing any when she fell down the bank, they might have been washed away. She was wearing a red satin slip, and a red robe of some kind. And, I'm sorry to say it, she wasn't wearing any knickers."

Truth be told the girl had been dressed for bed. No pockets, no undergarments, no shoes or stockings. Lucien had stood for a time just looking at her, wondering where she'd been, dressed like that, wondering what she'd been doing, whether in the hours before her death she'd been happy and unconcerned at home, or if...well. He didn't much want to think about the _if._ The paltry sum of her garments and personal possessions was troubling; there had been absolutely nothing identifiable about her at all, but as he spoke Matthew's face had taken on a thoughtful expression.

"A red slip," he mused. "That's not the sort of thing a girl would wear under her clothes, is it?"

"No, I'd say this particular garment was designed to be seen." There had been some lace around the hem, and around the décolletage. She'd probably looked quite pretty wearing it, before.

"Any guess as to her age?"

"I'd say early twenties." About the same age as Lucien's own daughter, and that thought alone made his stomach churn with grief.

There was a glint in Matthew's eye, now, as if he'd caught wind of something useful, and Lucien leaned toward him then, eager to hear what he had to say.

"What are you thinking?"

Dinner with the superintendent was rarely a merry affair, but it was always fun for Lucien, in its own way. They always enjoyed a fine meal, and interesting conversation, and pouring over the riddle of the hour provided occupation for his mind, which he sometimes felt might well atrophy in the provincial boredom of life in Ballarat. Given Matthew's response just now, Lucien rather thought this might be shaping up to be one of their livelier evenings.

"Young girl, in lingerie, no identification…"

"You think she was on the game?" Now that was an interesting prospect. There had to be prostitutes in Ballarat, Lucien knew; the oldest profession employed young women in every city, town, and village the world over. Even so, he had yet to encounter any of them here, nor had he ever heard anyone discussing them - not that anyone would, in his particular social circles.

"It's possible," Matthew said, taking another swig of whiskey to wash down his potatoes.

"But we've no way to identify her." Lucien wasn't even sure where they could begin looking for a prostitute in Ballarat, knowing only that she was young and brunette. Recent changes in the laws regarding prostitution had made it harder and harder to track them, and if she'd been working for herself on some shady street corner there might not be anyone at all who remembered her. It was strange, really, how small a life could become, how a person could pass through the world and leave no trace of themselves behind. Strange, and sad, and a fear that hit a little too close to home for Lucien, whose family was lost and whose only friend in all the world was his employer.

"We don't, but I think I know someone who might. There's a pub, out towards Brown Hill. The Lock and Key. All sorts of things for sale there."

"It's a brothel?"

Matthew grinned. "It's a pub. There's rooms upstairs for rent. The owner's position is she's only a landlord, and what the girls who rent those rooms get up to is their own affair."

"And you let her get away with that?"

Matthew shrugged. "We all know what it is. We all know what she's doing. But she runs a tight ship, and we don't have any actual evidence of her involvement. Brothel keeping is an offense, but all we can prove is she's collecting rent."

That didn't sit well with Lucien, the thought of some old biddy making money off the backs of desperate girls, carrying on right under the police superintendent's nose, and nothing anyone could do to stop it. It seemed an injustice, and what was the point of the police, he wondered, if not to right such wrongs?

"I know what you're thinking," Matthew said, "and I thought the same thing, once. But she takes care of those girls. Keeps them fed, keeps them safe. Whatever she's charging it's enough to keep the rabble out. She's got a more...discerning clientele, and muscle on the door in case there's trouble. And there's not a thing that happens in this town she doesn't know about. Her information's good as gold, every time."

"You mean to tell me the local madam is a police informant?" Thoughts of death and the smell of blood had begun to fade from his mind, for Matthew had just presented Lucien with a far more interesting quandary. A brothel keeper who was on friendly terms with the police, who treated her girls well, who had made Matthew Lawson smile when he talked about her; Lucien rather thought he'd like to meet such a woman.

"When it suits her. Like I said, she's smart. She knows how to protect herself and her girls. I'd go so far as to say she loves them, in her own way. And it might be she knows something about a girl who was on the game and went missing six months ago."

"What time is it?" Lucien asked, leaning back in his chair as an idea began to take shape in his mind. It was a Monday evening, and early yet; surely, he thought, the pub wouldn't be doing much trade yet.

"It's just gone six," Matthew said, checking his watch. "Why?"

Lucien saw it, the moment Matthew's eyes narrowed as he realized what his police surgeon was up to, and he could not help but grin in response.

"No," Matthew said sharply. "Lucien, you can't go to that pub after dark. You can't be seen there. What do you think your patients will say when they get wind of it? Not to mention the brass in Melbourne."

"What makes you think they'll hear about it?" Lucien fired back. "I'll be in and out before anyone has a chance to see anything at all."

His mind was whirring as the plan began to take shape. If this madam was as helpful as Matthew seemed to think, she just might be the key to solving this puzzle, or at least giving a name to the poor girl they'd dredged from the creek. In the next breath Lucien was out of his chair, reaching for his jacket with one hand and his whiskey with the other, his supper all but forgotten.

"You're going now?" Matthew asked incredulously as Lucien downed the last of his whiskey.

"No time like the present," Lucien told him cheerfully. "If I go now they shouldn't be too busy. I might even get to talk to some of the girls."

"You're mad, you know that?" Matthew said ruefully. "You do what you like, Lucien, but be careful. You don't know what you're walking in to."

That was probably true enough; Lucien had not set foot in a brothel since Hong Kong, and he had only the barest grasp of local politics. But a chance had presented itself, and he felt he would be a fool not to take it.

"What's her name?" he asked as he shrugged into his jacket. "The madam?" If he was going to go looking for her, he'd need to know her name at least.

"Jean," Matthew answered. "Jean Beazley."


	2. Chapter 2

_18 May 1959_

The Lock and Key did not appear, at first blush, to be a den of iniquity. Lucien had found it easily enough, thanks to some rather sketchy directions he'd managed to pull out of a begrudging Matthew, and he parked his car two streets away for good measure, approaching on foot the better to disguise his arrival. The pub was an old colonial brick building; it boasted two floors, and a wide veranda that wrapped around the first level. There was no one loitering on that veranda, however, no muddy cars or plumes of cigarette smoke to indicate that the pub catered to men of certain appetites. It was swept clean, and its windows, though covered by heavy drapes on the inside, were immaculate. The front door was heavy and wooden, and as Lucien swung it open a little bell tinkled merrily above it.

The interior of the pub was as unassuming as the exterior had been; there was no pall of smoke, no raucous laughter, no half naked girls sitting on the laps of prominent businessmen. The walls were whitewashed, the bar running the length of the back wall polished and shining. There were warm wooden booths lining the periphery, and stout tables and chairs scattered about, each boasting its own little lamp. Lucien supposed he had been correct, in thinking it was early yet; there were only three gentlemen in the pub, all of them sitting at the bar, nursing pints of beer and refusing to meet one another's eyes. A jukebox in the corner was playing that Bobby Lee song Lucien seemed to hear every time he stepped out his front door, and the bottles on the wall behind the bar were pristine and gleaming in the glow of the lamps. There were a few young ladies, most of whom seemed to be in their early twenties, scattered around the room; they sat at tables or leaned against the walls, talking quietly to one another. Their dresses were clean and well-fitted, their makeup soft and pretty, not garish as Lucien had expected. They all looked...perfectly normal, he thought, their faces fresh and unlined, their smiles easy and untroubled. It was not at all what he expected, and for a moment he found himself utterly at a loss as to what to do next. Speak to one of them, he supposed, ask for the lady of the house and see where his inquiries might lead him, but before he had the chance he was quite shocked to find another friendly face in the pub.

"Doc," Danny hissed as he came rushing over, his eyes a little wild. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Lucien answered, grinning. "I wouldn't think a constable's salary would stretch to accommodate an evening in this place." Danny was in plain clothes, a nice navy shirt and dark trousers, and somehow that made him look even younger than he did when he wore his policeman's uniform. Though Lucien had no idea how much money Danny made - or what these girls might charge - Matthew had told him that the madam charged a hefty price for her girls' services, and everything Lucien had seen so far seemed to indicate that such services would be costly indeed. There was no bitter tang of desperation in the air, no dark corners for doing ill deeds. The Lock and Key was warm and cheery and neat, and in the world of brothels, such luxury came dearly.

"I'm not a customer," Danny told him in a fierce whisper. "I'm working."

"What, undercover? Matthew didn't say -"

"No," Danny sighed, exasperated now. "I work security a few nights a week. Now get out of here before someone sees you."

Now _that_ was interesting. Curiosity had always been Lucien's greatest flaw, and it burned within him now. What sort of woman could keep a house like this, he wondered, could tend it so lovingly and yet condone the antics that went on beneath her roof? What sort of woman, engaged in such a business, would willingly give information to the police, and hire one of them to keep her girls safe? A very intriguing woman indeed, he thought, and one he was eager to meet.

"Actually, Danny, I'm here to speak with the landlady. The superintendent thinks she may know something about our victim."

At those words Danny visibly paled, and all the fight seemed to leave him.

"All right," he said. "But be quick about it. I don't want to explain to anyone what you were doing here. She's in the back corner," he pointed to a booth tucked almost completely out of sight. "And be nice."

"I'm always nice, Danny," Lucien told him, clapping the lad on the shoulder before making his way towards that booth.

She had chosen her seat well; tucked away in that corner she'd have a clear view of anyone who walked in the door, and the wall at her back meant no one could sneak up on her. Lucien had known bookies who favored the same position in their various places of work. Did she sit here every evening, he wondered, keeping watch over her girls, her pub, her livelihood? Did the customers have to come to her first, before they could slip upstairs with the girl of their choice? It reminded him of the stories he'd read at school, about the ancient Greek oracles and the men who would make pilgrimage to them, approach them respectfully and with gold dripping from their hands, begging blessings from those priestesses before beginning any new venture. Powerful, unknowable, sacred and terrifying; would she be like that? He wondered.

All too soon his feet led him to that booth, and the sight that waited for him there was as strange and unexpectedly lovely as everything else about this place had been.

The first thing he noticed was that she was not, as he had feared, some wrinkled old biddy, skin like shoe leather and eyes like daggers after a lifetime spent in the trade. She looked to be in her early forties, and though there were little wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and lips her face was wholly, completely lovely. High sharp cheekbones, soft full lips, the slope of her neck elegant and slender. She wore a pale pink blouse, demurely buttoned, and her soft brown hair was carefully curled, caught at the nape of her neck in a charming sort of way. Thin but not hard, she was somehow, shockingly beautiful; there was nothing about her, he thought, that seemed to suggest she was the sort of woman who could be found in a place like this. A cup of tea sat on a china saucer in front of her, a single biscuit placed next to it. But stranger still, her hands were busy with a pair of knitting needles, darting and flashing too fast for his eyes to keep up with them, the pattern they wove through heavy white yarn utterly incomprehensible to him, and strangest of all a gold band sparkled on her left hand. She was married then, or had been once, and that thought shocked him, for it had never even occurred to him before now that such a thing might be possible. Her eyes were on her work and she did not raise them as he approached, but a soft smile tugged up the corner of her mouth, as if she had been expecting him.

"Good evening, Doctor Blake," she said, a bit primly. Her back was ramrod-straight, her bearing proud, not slumped over her work.

"I'm afraid you have the advantage over me, Jean," he said then, trying to wade carefully into the quagmire that had been laid before him. How was he supposed to talk to her? Courteously, surely, but women in this line of work tended to be a bit earthier, a bit more crass; would she disdain him if he spoke to her too carefully? Or would she throw him out if he was too familiar?

"That's _Mrs. Beazley,_ if you please, Doctor Blake," she answered. "We do like to observe the niceties here." _And where is Mr. Beazley,_ Lucien wondered as he looked at her, _while you hold court here? Do you go home to him, and sleep safe beside him without any thought for what these girls are doing?_

"My apologies, Mrs. Beazley," he said at once. "I didn't expect you to know my name."

The smile was back, lending her features a delicate sort of softness in the dim light from the lamp overhead, but still she did not look at him.

"I saw you at the funeral."

"My father's funeral?" Lucien asked incredulously. "I'm sorry to say I don't recall seeing you there."

Mrs. Beazley sighed, and placed her knitting to the side, looking up at him at last. Her eyes were clear and bright, the grey-blue color of the sea in a storm, and the brilliance of those eyes held him fast; her curls bounced disapprovingly as she lifted her head, and he had the strange, uncomfortable thought then that this was what it must have felt like to cross paths with a gorgon.

"You wouldn't have," she told him simply. "I kept a certain distance, I didn't want to make a scene. But I wanted to pay my respects. I am sorry for your loss, Doctor Blake. I was always very fond of your father."

Something clenched unpleasantly deep in the pit of Lucien's stomach; the thought of his cantankerous old father in a place like this, in the arms of a woman who looked to be younger than Lucien himself, who looked too pretty and too maternal to be occupied in such a business, was an appalling one. And if there was a certain sense of jealous, a certain bitterness at the idea of his father enjoying her gentle smiles while Lucien loomed over her from a distance, it was buried too deep beneath his disgust for him to give it a name. Perhaps some of his distress showed on his face for she laughed then, once, a gentle, tinkling sort of sound, and put his fears to rest.

"He was never a customer, Doctor Blake," she assured him, and relief washed over him in waves. "Your father saw to the girls' medical care. Immunizations, and prescriptions when they fell ill, that sort of thing. I even had him in a few times to talk to them about the sort of...precautions they ought to take." She spoke that word _precautions_ with all the delicate distaste of a schoolmarm, despite her occupation. Lucien wasn't sure which thought was stranger, his father paying for the services of a prostitute, or his father lecturing a group of prostitutes on safe sex practices. Neither was the sort of thing he would expect from Thomas Blake, a man he remembered as hard, cold, and distant.

"Would you like to have a seat, Doctor Blake?" she asked him then, gesturing towards the expanse of the vacant seat to her left. Lucien did not hesitate; he had come here to speak with her, and she had not thrown him out yet, and that was all for the good. His mind was buzzing with questions, and he meant to have answers for each of them.

"Thank you, Mrs. Beazley," he said as he settled himself beside her, dropping his hat to rest on the table. She looked at that hat, and she frowned, and so he lifted it up and set it on the seat between them.

"I don't suppose you came here to ask me about your father," she said then, reaching for her tea.

"No, I didn't. But now that you've mentioned him, I find I'm terribly curious. How did your little...arrangement come to be?"

Mrs. Beazley cradled her teacup in both hands, watching him thoughtfully over the rim of it all the while. Matthew had been right, Lucien could see that at once; Mrs. Beazley was a clever one, and careful, too.

"You won't find anything for free here, Doctor Blake," she told him then. "Even conversation has its price."

Lucien grinned; _that_ was more in keeping with what he'd expected from the sort of woman who ran a brothel.

"What's the going rate for conversation, these days?"

"Penny for your thoughts, isn't that what they say?" There was nothing confrontational or hard about her, and the price she'd set was arbitrary; perhaps, he thought, she was testing him in some way, but he had no idea whether he'd meet with her approval. A price had been named, and it must be paid, and so he rummaged in his pocket until at last he produced the desired coin. He handed it to her silently, and she accepted it with grace, and as she did he looked at her hands, and noticed how lovely they were, not worn hard from labor, delicate but capable, the nails painted a deep, perfect shade of red, unchipped and well tended.

"I've known your father all my life," she told him as her hand and the coin disappeared beneath the table. "He was our family doctor, and we went to the same church." _A whore in church,_ he thought dimly, _who would have thought._ "He was always very kind to me. Oh, he disapproved of all this," she gave a negligent wave of her hand, indicating the pub and its patrons, "but he wanted to help, in his own way."

"How about that," Lucien mused, still trying to digest her words, hardly believing it. From the moment he'd seen this place he had been on the back foot, desperately trying to find some sense of balance, but everywhere he turned he found more questions. How much must his father have changed, he wondered, that he could have taken such a task for himself? The man Lucien remembered had been much concerned with status, and appearances, living up to the Blake name and preserving their iron-clad reputation, and he had not appreciated his son's deviations from those expectations. The thought of him willingly walking into such a place as this, associating with this woman, looking after these girls, knowing the risk he was taking, was utterly baffling.

"But you didn't come here to talk about him," she said after a moment's pause. "So what can I do for you, Doctor Blake?"


	3. Chapter 3

_18 May 1959_

He wasn't what she'd been expecting, somehow. Not that she'd been expecting much; Thomas Blake had not spoken often of his wayward son, and then had only done so in the broadest of terms. _Too clever for his own good, impulsive, I fear he'll never grow up, but if he ever does, I doubt I shall ever see him again._ They'd shared that in common, Jean and Thomas, the love and the fear for a son who had chosen a difficult path in life, and given his parents grief. Somehow she'd always imagined Lucien Blake would be rather like a grown up version of Jack, charming when it suited his purposes but full of the petulant anger of a child who felt he'd been wronged by the world. The glimpse she'd caught of him at Thomas's funeral seemed to reinforce that belief; he had been stony-faced and distant, and he had not spoken to anyone save the old Clasby sisters, and then only briefly. _He won't be here long,_ Jean had thought then; _he fancies we're all beneath him._ Of course that wasn't the case; she knew that he had taken up his father's surgery and his position with the police, knew that the younger Blake was now in Ballarat to stay, and she'd wondered what it meant, that he should have made such a choice when his father had believed he was never coming home. She'd wondered what sort of man he was, that he should have traveled all around the world, and experienced so much of life, and yet could be satisfied with Ballarat.

And now he was sitting beside her, and against her better judgement she found herself quite fascinated by him. He was terribly, almost painfully handsome; the days when Jean's head would have been turned by a square jaw and a gentle smile were long gone, but still she could appreciate that other ladies might be enthralled by him. Broad shoulders and thick arms far too well-muscled for a well-to-do doctor, the neat greying beard lending an air of gravitas to his features, blue eyes bright and warm. Christopher's eyes had been blue, too, and it was those eyes that made her fall in love with him, those eyes that she saw now reflected in the face of her own troublesome son; Jean had always been fond of blue eyes, and she liked Lucien Blake all the more for them. The suit the doctor wore was navy and finely tailored, and everything about him, his bearing, the style of his hair, the casual way he leaned against the booth, spoke of privilege, a man who was comfortable in himself, in his life, in the weight of coins in his pocket. Lucien Blake did not look like a man who had suffered, and she wanted to mistrust him for it, but he was no Patrick Tyneman, lording his wealth and status over those he deemed unworthy of his company. Lucien Blake had sought her out, and spoken to her courteously, and she found herself intrigued by this contradiction in him, and curious to learn more about how he had come to be in this place.

"You may have heard," he told her now, "that the police discovered the body of a young woman this morning."

"How awful," Jean answered softly. It _was_ awful; people said all sorts of horrible things about the goings on beneath Jean's roof, but violence and death were not common in her world, and her heart ached to think of that poor girl's life cut tragically short, and her family left to grieve, wondering what had become of her. "I'm not sure I see what that has to do with me."

A pained expression crossed Doctor Blake's face, as if he was trying to work out some way to put his question to her delicately.

"The young woman was in a state of...undress, and based on her age and her garments Superintendent Lawson thought you might be able to help us identify her."

"I'm sure I can't," Jean told him primly. "All the young ladies who lodge here are present and accounted for."

Oh, Doctor Blake - and Matthew Lawson for that matter - knew very well what sort of establishment Jean was running. It was the worst kept secret in Ballarat, but still, the niceties must be observed. Jean had spent the last fifteen years dancing around the subject of her work, finding ways to disguise her real purpose and maintain her freedom and independence. And while she knew that Matthew meant well, that he was only looking for answers and Doctor Blake was only trying to help him, a certain caution was required of her. And besides, the question he'd raised rankled. As if every young woman who was not properly dressed must surely have been in the business, as if the authorities had bypassed every possible explanation for her clothing or lack thereof and decided that she'd been up to something salacious before she died. As if Jean would not have noticed if one of her girls was missing, or would not have cared enough to try to find her; the very idea was an affront to her, for she had dedicated herself to looking after those vulnerable souls within her care.

"Forgive me, Mrs. Beazley, but this particular young lady died about six months ago. We've had no reports of anyone matching her description having gone missing. I'm sure if she had been one of your...tenants you would have alerted the authorities to her disappearance. I'm only wondering if perhaps you might have heard about a young lady passing through town."

He seemed completely genuine, she thought. Such earnest sincerity was rare in her line of work, and despite herself she found she rather liked it. Rather liked _him_. He'd been nothing but friendly since his arrival, and even when she'd shocked him with news of his father's connection to this place he had recovered his composure quickly, and passed no judgement. Even now he did not appear frustrated or disturbed by her obfuscation; it seemed to her that he only wanted to find answers to the quandary that had been presented to him, and she found that she wanted to help.

"Six months ago," she said, thinking aloud. "That would have been November?" It would have been late spring, summer coming on fast. Jean couldn't recall much of note around that time of year; Christmas she remembered, of course, because neither of her boys had come home, but she had still decorated the upstairs of the pub, and purchased little presents for the girls so that they all might have something to open, on the day. She'd closed for business, and gone to mass, and sat in the back with her widow's veil half-covering her face, hoping no one took note of her. Had there been anything strange, before that? Arrivals and departures were not rare in the Lock and Key. The girls in her employ came and went; some were lifers, as Jean herself had been, but most were only there for a season. It was not the sort of work many women wanted to do for years on end.

"There was a girl," Jean said softly as the truth came to her. "I had an open room upstairs, and a few ladies made inquiries. One of them was from out of town. She didn't have much money, and she seemed...scared."

Doctor Blake leaned toward her now, eager, hopeful almost. "Can you remember anything at all about her? Her name, what she looked like?"

"She was very pretty," Jean answered. They always were. "She had long brown hair, I remember because you don't see that so much, any more. All the girls seem to want to cut their hair these days. I'm afraid I don't recall her name."

"You wouldn't have written it down anywhere by chance?"

Jean smiled at him; she couldn't help it. _Oh, there's much you have to learn,_ she thought. "It's not as if I keep resumes on file, Doctor Blake. You'll find very little in the way of records here."

Writing things down was a mortal sin, in her line of work. Discretion was paramount to her safety and to the continued influx of business from important men in the town, and so Jean had become rather adept at running her business based solely on her own memory. It galled her to think she could not remember the girl's name, when she so prided herself on her ability to recall important details, but the girl had not stayed on with her, and at the time she'd seemed insignificant. It was only in hindsight Jean realized her mistake, and she berated herself for it.

"Perhaps some of the girls might remember her?" Doctor Blake suggested.

"You can ask them, if you like," Jean told him. "But their time is valuable, and they'll need to be compensated."

 _Even conversation has its price._ Jean had learned that lesson long ago, and taught it to all the little ducks she'd gathered beneath her wing. The world had a way of taking everything from a girl on her own, and it was up to them to fight for their own worth. Even the police surgeon would have to pay, if he wanted something from them, and information was far and away the most valuable treasure they possessed. Those girls - and Jean herself - harbored enough secrets to bring the mightiest men in Ballarat low, but they held them all in reserve, insurance against future calamities.

"Of course," Doctor Blake said genially. He gathered his hat, no doubt preparing himself to rise from the booth and go out to question the young ladies currently gathered around the room. "Thank you, Mrs. Beazley," he added. "You've been very helpful."

"Helpful enough to warrant a favor, perhaps?" she suggested then. An idea had come to her earlier in their conversation, as they spoke about his father, and now seemed as good a time to make her request as any.

"Depends on the favor," he answered carefully. He was trying to protect himself, no doubt well aware that any bargain made beneath this roof would cost him dearly, but he was curious, too, she could see that. He would have to be curious indeed, she thought, to come to this place in the evening, to pay her for her time, to ask such questions. She rather hoped he'd be curious enough to come back.

"One of the young ladies upstairs is expecting a baby," Jean told him primly. "I'd like to have her examined by a doctor, but she doesn't have the means to pay."

"She's pregnant and you're letting her stay?" There was cause for the note of alarm in his voice, she knew; a brothel was hardly the ideal place to raise a child, and most brothel-keepers would not permit children beneath their roof. But Jean was a mother herself, and would never turn one of her girls out for the crime of having a baby. The young lady in question was no longer working, and Jean had cut her rent in half, to allow her time to prepare for what was to come, and decide her fate.

"It's entirely her decision whether she stays or goes," Jean answered firmly. "Most of the time they choose to leave, but if they want to stay on I do my best to accommodate them. There have been quite a few babies born beneath this roof, and none of them have ever wanted for love or care."

And Jean had known them all, had held their mothers' hands while they gave birth, had rocked them in the still of the night, had played with them, fed them, kept them warm and safe. The world beyond the Lock and Key was not kind for a mother and baby on their own, and Jean had always done her best to give those poor lost souls a home, and what comfort she could. She knew what people thought about this place, about her girls and the work they did, but Jean knew they were all just trying to do their best in a society that offered them no reprieve from blame.

"I must say, Mrs. Beazley, this is a very unusual sort of place," Doctor Blake told her, but there was no accusation in him; he seemed almost impressed by her fortitude. "But I would be happy to help. When would be a convenient time for me to visit?"

"Tomorrow, perhaps? In the afternoon?"

"Lovely," he said, and then he did rise to his feet at last, holding his hat in his hands. "Have a good evening, Mrs. Beazley," he said, giving her a whimsical little bow.

"And you, Doctor Blake."

With those words he turned and left her, making his way across the room towards the girls, and Jean once more picked up her knitting, her hands moving quite without any direction from her mind, which was consumed with thoughts of him.


	4. Chapter 4

_19 May 1959_

The young ladies of the Lock and Key proved most eager to help, and had provided Lucien with a name and a few details for the girl Mrs. Beazley had mentioned to him. Given what he was able to glean from the prostitutes Lucien gathered she was likely the same girl that poor farmer had discovered in the stream on Monday morning, and he lamented for it, that she should have been so easily lost to the world, should have met such a troubled end so young. By the time he completed his inquiries the pub had begun to fill up with customers, and his informants had begun to drift away from him, on the hunt for their evening's wages. It had been easy to forget, before then, what those girls were doing in that place, how they earned their living; they'd seemed happy, and untroubled, and not at all like he'd expected. As he watched them begin to make their way up the stairs, however, he had remembered, had donned his hat and stepped out into the night with a heavy heart.

He could not fault them for the circumstances that had led them to the Lock and Key; the world was full of girls with neither family nor resources, turning to the only skill they could rely on for steady earnings. Poverty and desperation often went hand in hand, and misery with them. He wanted to fault the gentlemen who paid for those girls, who went to that place night after night in search of something that should never be purchased with money, but his own guilt would not allow him to stand in judgment of the customers, either. There had been a charming little place in Berlin, when he was young and drunk and stupid, and a seedy back room in Hong Kong when he was older and drunk and devastated, where Lucien had sought sanctuary just as the customers of the Lock and Key did now. Neither experience had been pleasant, and both had left him empty and aching - for very different reasons - but he understood the forces that could drive a man to a place like that. Mrs. Beazley seemed the sort of madam who took good care of her girls, and the pub was clean, and he supposed those girls could have ended up in much worse places, and so his heart remained conflicted, knowing that that matter was not so black and white as he would like for it to be.

That night as he laid down to sleep his thoughts were full of them, Mrs. Beazley and her girls. She had been clever, and cautious, and courteous to a fault, and he found himself quite fascinated by her. She had been married once, or was still, and she seemed bright and thoughtful; how could such a woman, who he suspected had a good many skills besides the obvious, end up in a place like that? Had she inherited the family business, passed down from her mother or her father or her husband? Had her husband up and left her in dire straights, with no way to provide for herself and no other options? Somehow Lucien did not think that was the case, for surely if her husband had abandoned her she would not insist on keeping his name, would not still wear his ring.

 _There's more here than meets the eye,_ that was the last thought that drifted through his mind before sleep claimed him.

In the morning he typed his autopsy report and the notes from his conversations with the girls, and then took the lot to Matthew Lawson. The police had a name, now, and an avenue of investigation, and no further need of him, and so once that business was done he carted himself off home, wolfed down a sandwich made for him by a very concerned looking Mrs. Penny, and then set off for the pub once more.

A penny, that's all Mrs. Beazley had charged him for the pleasure of her conversation the day before. It was best to be prepared for all eventualities, he thought, and so he carried with him a pocket full of pennies, and a few shillings besides, hopeful that he might both help the pregnant girl upstairs and ferret out a few more answers where Mrs. Beazley was concerned. She was quite simply the most fascinating person he'd met since his return to Ballarat, and thoughts of his silent house and his lack of social ties faded beneath the multitude of questions he wanted to ask her. He wanted to know everything about her, wanted to hear her laugh again, wanted to see her bright smile. He wanted to see for himself whether the girls were as well-off as he had been led to believe, or whether there might be something he could do to help improve their circumstances. And if it was the beauty of Mrs. Beazley's face that compelled him, if it was her deft, delicate hands and the slope of her collarbones over her pale pink blouse that enthralled him, he tried not to think of it at all, and focused himself on the intellectual stimulation another conversation with her might provide.

Once again he parked his car a few streets away, and approached the pub on foot. There was a little sign on the door that said _CLOSED,_ but he tried the knob anyway, and was rewarded when the door swung open, and that little bell tinkled merrily above it.

The pub was as clean and charming in the daylight as it had appeared in the evening the night before, but there were no men in sight. Several young ladies were seated at the bar, plates of food in front of them, chatting contentedly with one another. They looked for all the world like they'd just been out shopping and stopped for a spot of lunch, laughing prettily, perfect curls bouncing as they tossed their heads. Of course the girls had to eat, and of course the pub was their home, but it had never occurred to wonder, before now, where prostitutes took their meals, or how they got them.

The answer was standing right behind the bar; Mrs. Beazley, in a green floral dress, was holding court with her charges, looking more like a kindly matron than a madam. Her dark hair was gathered in a mess of curls at the nape of her neck, and the sleeves of her dress showed the pale skin of her forearms, the close-fitting apron she wore highlighting the flare of her hips and the neat tuck of her waist. She looked...happy, warm and smiling, and was somehow more beautiful now than she had been the night before. As they ate she spoke to the girls, and topped one of their glasses up with water, keeping watch over all of them while they ate. _Do they take all their meals this way?_ Lucien wondered as he approached. _Together, like a family?_ He supposed they were a family of sorts, sisters bound together by shared experiences, and Jean their mother, warm and watchful, trying to protect them and guide them on their way.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Blake," Mrs. Beazley called to him pleasantly once she caught sight of him. As one the girls turned to look at him, their expressions varying from curious to appraising, but Jean was already moving, wiping her hands on her apron as she came out from behind the bar.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Beazley," Lucien answered politely, sweeping his hat from his head with one hand while the other held tight to his medical bag. "Where's the patient?"

The girls seemed to lose interest in him then, having realized he was not coming as a customer but as a Doctor, and Lucien didn't much mind the loss of their curious gazes. Jean was smiling at him, and his heart was glad of it.

"This way," she said, heading for the staircase in the back corner of the pub. "She's been very tired, I'm worried she might be a touch anemic."

 _That_ was a fascinating observation, if only because he hadn't expected Jean to be at all knowledgeable about that sort of thing. Then again, he supposed, she had told him a good many babies had been born in the pub; perhaps she was drawing on her previous experiences.

"Well, I can take a blood sample today, and we can find out for sure," Lucien told her as he followed her up the stairs.

The living quarters above the pub's dining room were yet another surprise. Though he had emerged into a veritable warren of closed doors and short corridors the walls were whitewashed and pristine, and the old hardwood floors were polished and clean enough to eat off of. He'd seen perhaps six girls downstairs, but as he followed Mrs. Beazley he saw that there must have been at least a dozen rooms up here. Were they all occupied? He wondered as he walked along. And did one of them belong to her? Did she sleep in this place, live among her employees, or did she only pop in to feed them and keep an eye on her business before retiring to a comfortable home elsewhere?

"Here we are," she announced, stopping outside one door in particular. "Sarah?" she called softly even as she knocked upon the door. _We do like to observe the niceties here,_ she'd told him the night before, and he approved of that, very much. The girl inside that room - Sarah - called back in answer, and then Jean was stepping inside, Lucien hot on her heels.

"Doctor's here," Jean said, making her way towards the bed at once. For his part Lucien hesitated a moment, casting his gaze about the room and trying to get his bearings.

It was not a very large room, but it neither was it cramped or crowded. There was a dressing table with a mirror and a little bench, a tall wooden wardrobe, and of course, the bed. Navy curtains hung over the window, though they had been pulled back to let in the weak autumn sunshine, and there was a painting of flowers on the wall above the bed, and a bouquet of fresh flowers in a vase on the dressing table. The room was clean and comfortable, and in the daylight it was hard to imagine anything untoward happening there.

Sarah lay in the bed, her head propped up on the pillows, the swell of her belly visible beneath the blankets. She looked to be about twenty, blonde and pretty, her face clean of make-up, her brown doe's eyes wide and fixed on Mrs. Beazley's face. Jean had perched on the side of her bed and was talking to her now, no doubt trying to reassure her that she had nothing to fear from Lucien's presence in the room, and young Sarah seemed to hang on her every word. Perhaps it was natural, he thought, that the girls in this place might harbor some mistrust of men, and he would do his best to prove their suspicions unfounded, at least where he was concerned.

"Hello, Sarah," he said softly. "My name's Doctor Blake. Mrs. Beazley tells me you're expecting a baby."

He kept his voice low, and kept his distance, not wanting to approach until his patient had indicated it was all right for him to do so. His restraint was rewarded when Jean cast a glance at him over her shoulder, and smiled at him warmly.

"Doctor's just come to make sure you're healthy, and the baby, too. Is that all right?" Jean asked her wary charge, reaching out to brush a lock of hair back from her face with all the gentle tenderness of a mother looking after her child.

"Will you stay with me?" Sarah asked her apprehensively.

"Of course I will." Jean's answer was firm, and the girl visibly relaxed.

"All right, then," she said.

And so Lucien set to work. He did it carefully, slowly, took his measurements and asked his questions. Based on the answers he gathered that Jean's hunch had been correct, that the poor girl likely was anemic, and her ankles were more swollen than he would have liked, but he kept his concerns to himself, and tried to maintain a genial demeanor. He took a blood sample for testing, and through it all Jean held poor Sarah's hand, watching him closely as if she were poised to jump in and defend Sarah should the doctor overstep. Such observation was a little unnerving, but he had examined patients under far worse circumstances, and all in all it wasn't so very bad.

"One last thing, Sarah," he said as he tucked the vial of her blood into his case. "Do you think you could provide me with a urine sample today?"

"I can try," she said dubiously.

"Marvelous," Lucien answered. He pulled a small container from his bag while Jean helped the girl to her feet, and then Sarah shuffled off to the loo, leaving Lucien alone with Jean, and quite at a loss as to what he ought to say to her.

"She's one of my quiet ones," Jean told him in a confidential sort of tone. "She hasn't been here long. They all know what sort of precautions they ought to take but some of them aren't brave enough to insist on it. I'm afraid she's one of them."

"Your dedication to their welfare is commendable, Mrs. Beazley," Lucien told her. And it was; for all that he wished none of the girls had ever set foot in this place he had to give Mrs. Beazley credit for the care she showed to all her charges. "But what will happen once the baby arrives?"

"She won't stay," Jean answered simply. "Once that baby comes, she'll see sense. I've taught her how to use a sewing machine, she might be able to find work for herself somewhere else. If they don't put the children up for adoption I will let them stay, but there's something about becoming a mother that puts most girls off this work."

"Most girls," Lucien repeated, his thoughts racing now. There was something about the way she said it that gave him pause, something wistful and sad in her tone that made him desperate to learn more. "What about you, Mrs. Beazley? Do you have any children, or just these little birds you've gathered under your wing?"

Jean crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes narrowing as she looked at him, and before she could reprimand him Lucien reached into his pocket, and pulled out a penny.

"I do recall the price of conversation," he said, offering it to her.

"That was last night," she told him, and her expression was not at all friendly, and Lucien began to suspect he had made a grave misstep. "It's a shilling, now."

"Right." Once more he rummaged through his pocket, and came out with a shilling this time, handing it to her in silence. He had not meant to give offense, by his question or his offer of payment, but perhaps he had. It had been made very clear to him that the Lock and Key operated according to Mrs. Beazley's rules, but he had not yet learned them all, and he feared that any misstep on his part might close its doors to him forever. That simply wouldn't do; Sarah needed care, and Lucien wanted his answers.

"I have two sons," Mrs. Beazley said primly as the shilling disappeared into the pocket of her apron.

No further explanation was forthcoming.

"And how old are they?"

There was a pause, then, as Jean looked at him appraisingly and Lucien began to question the wisdom of engaging her on this particular topic of conversation. Perhaps she did not appreciate being treated like a novelty, a riddle to solve, or perhaps she valued her privacy, or perhaps she was wondering whether she ought to charge him for every answer she gave. He would have paid, and gladly, for she intrigued him, and his father had left him so very well off that he could stand to lose more than a few shillings in pursuit of the answers he had begun to crave.

"What is this about, Doctor Blake?" she asked him then, one eyebrow arched as she gauged his response. "Am I part of one of your investigations?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Lucien answered, tucking his hands in his pockets and feeling somewhat abashed. She was right to be protective of her privacy, and he understood her reticence to speak given her precarious social position. No matter how curious he might have been, she was a person, not puzzle, and he did not want to give her cause to mistrust him so early in their acquaintance. "I just...I think I would quite like it if we could be friends, Mrs. Beazley. And this is what friends do, isn't it? Get to know one another?"

"You're a very strange man," she told him, but there was laughter in her eyes, and some of the tension in the room seemed to ease. "Very well. Young Christopher is twenty-three, and Jack is twenty-one."

"Young Christopher," Lucien mused before he could stop himself. "Named for his father, eh?"

"You can't help yourself, can you?" she asked him a bit wryly. "That one will cost you extra, Doctor Blake."

It was a small price to pay, and Lucien was quite enjoying this little game between them. There was so much more he wanted to know, and he had a feeling that if she truly did not want to answer she would have stopped him in his tracks already. No, he rather thought she was enjoying their conversation as well, but he had no sooner reached for another shilling than the door opened behind him.

"Sorry it took so long, I couldn't hardly reach," Sarah said as she came shuffling back in, handing Lucien the sample he'd requested.

"No trouble at all," he assured her.

Though he dearly wanted to continue his discussion with Jean even he could tell that the moment had passed him by, and so he tucked the sample in his bag, and readied himself to leave.

"It will be a few days before I have the results of these tests back, Sarah, but I'll pop by as soon as I know something. In the meantime, get plenty of rest, and drink plenty of water."

"I'll see that she does, Doctor," Jean told him in a voice that made it plain she would brook no arguments from her charge.

"Well then, I shall see you both later this week. Be well, Sarah."

"I'll show you out, Doctor."

Jean patted Sarah on the shoulder, and then she was escorting Lucien from the room, and he followed along behind her, his mind spinning. There was young Sarah and her baby to worry about, but Jean had given him much to think about, as well. Lucien was rather ashamed to admit that before now he had assumed that a woman with a family would never enter a business like this one, but Jean had been married, had borne children, at least one of whom was almost certainly a product of that marriage given that he bore his father's name. How had she gone from husband and children to this? Or were her boys still at home, waiting for her at the end of a long day? Did her children know what she did for a living? It wasn't the sort of life any young man would want for his mother, Lucien knew, but perhaps if things had always been this way they might have grown accustomed to it. Perhaps -

"I'm grateful to you for your help with Sarah, Doctor Blake," Jean told him as they reached the front door of the pub. "And so long as you continue to behave yourself, you're welcome here any time." The words said warmly, and Lucien did not take offense at them; in fact, it felt almost as if she were teasing him, and he was glad of it.

"Thank you, Mrs. Beazley," he told her earnestly. "Friends?" he added, offering her his hand to shake.

She smiled.

"Friends," she agreed, and then she shook his hand, and then he donned his hat and left her. It was not the last he'd see of Jean Beazley, he knew that now, and he was already quite looking forward to his next trip to the Lock and Key.


	5. Chapter 5

_19 May 1959_

"Doctor Blake seems nice," Sarah said to Jean as she eased herself onto a stool at the bar. That small task was getting harder for her by the day and most of them time Jean brought the meals upstairs to her to spare her the discomfort, but Sarah complained of missing the company, and often chose to come down to join the other girls for their evening meal. Well, not evening, exactly; supper was served at 4:30 on the dot, wolfed down and cleaned away by 5:00, when the pub's doors opened and the first of the evening's customers began to arrive. Attending supper was by no means a formal requirement, but most of the girls seemed to prefer eating together over foraging for themselves, and once the men started to arrive there was no time for eating at all, and Jean liked to make sure her girls were fortified for whatever their night held in store.

"Nice to look at," Maureen said, shooting Jean a knowing sort of look that Jean liked not at all. At twenty-six Maureen was one of the oldest girls currently living beneath Jean's roof, and an old timer who'd been a fixture of the Lock and Key for nearly seven years. The work had made her cynical where the topics of men and romance were concerned, but she looked after the younger girls, and she and Jean understood one another. Perhaps too well; the expression on Maureen's face carried with a sort of insinuation, as if she had noticed Jean's interest in the man, and meant to tease her for it. It wasn't interest, Jean tried to tell herself, not exactly; he was _interesting_ \- and handsome - but he would not, could not, be anything more to Jean than a passing curiosity.

"He's old enough to be your father," Jean chided her gently, hoping that would be the end of it.

"So is every other man who walks through that door," Maureen said with a saucy toss of her auburn curls. "And none of them look as good in a suit as he does, do they, Mrs. Beazley?"

She was right about one thing at least; not a one of their regular customers was under the age of thirty. The Lock and Key had long been established as a respectable sort of business, and the rules that had been laid down well before Jean had ever crossed the doorstep served to keep the young and hungry away. The pub boasted a clientele of businessmen and politicians, and a few gentlemen whose families had been wealthy since the dawn of time and would continue to be for the foreseeable future regardless of how much money they frittered away on prostitutes. It was not uncommon for some men to make the trip from surrounding towns, Bendigo and Castlemaine, looking for a bit of fun well away from the prying eyes of their neighbors; there was even one very important gentleman indeed who came all the way from Melbourne once a month, just to see his regular girl. But they were all dreadfully boring, in their own way, painfully normal, and Jean supposed it was no surprise that the arrival of the dashing Doctor Blake should have turned the girls' heads.

"Still, Doctor's not a customer," Jean said, not knowing what else to say. He seemed to be, as his father had been, eager to help but not eager to partake. Though he had been nothing but polite within her hearing Jean had only just met the man, and two brief conversations were no enough for her to have formed a complete opinion of him. He was clever, and a great deal more relaxed than his father had been, and seemed an endlessly curious sort of soul, but beyond that Jean could not say. In time, perhaps, he would show more of himself to her, and then...well. What happened next remained to be seen.

"Yet," this from Lorraine, dark hair cut short and dark eyes that glittered with mirth. "That could change."

She said it like she _wanted_ it to change, like she'd be interested in taking him on, and Jean liked that not one bit. Every girl approached their work differently, and harbored different hopes in their heart. Some of them tried to find some fun in the work where they could, tried to maintain some sense of optimism despite their circumstances, and Lorraine was one of the more cheerful ones.

"Taken a shine to him, have you, Raine?" Elizabeth teased her gently from further down the bar.

"What's not to like? He's handsome, and he's tall, and he's strong, and that's more than I can say for some of the fellas we see."

Things devolved rather quickly from there, as the girls began animatedly discussing their customers, the best and the worst, and how Doctor Blake might stack up in comparison. And for a few minutes Jean let them carry on, listened to their babble and kept her own counsel.

There was no reason, really, why Doctor Blake should not become a customer in time, if he wished. There were perhaps ethical implications involved - if he intended to carry on as the brothel's physician it would be most improper for him to also partake of its services - but in Jean's business the matter of ethics was murky, and prone to change at any given moment. After all, if she were truly concerned with the ethics of her work she would have closed the Lock and Key down the moment it passed into her care ten years before, or converted it into a proper pub, where the only things available for purchase were alcohol and her famous steak pies. She hadn't, of course, for a variety of reasons, and so she knew she could hardly stand in judgement of a man who purchased that which she provided. Still, though, Jean had her own sense of morality upon which she depended to guide her through the various twists and turns of her life, and the thought of Doctor Blake as a customer unsettled her.

Besides the issue of his role as their doctor, the thought of one of those girls taking his hand and leading him up the stairs left a bitter taste in her mouth for reasons she could not quite articulate, as if her distress was born not of logical thought but of some deeper, more primal understanding. She wanted to think he was a good man, too good to do such a thing, to take advantage of the services on offer. She wanted to think that he would not look at her girls, all half his age and lovely, and feel the same base lust that drove every other man who walked into that pub. She wanted to think that his interest in _her_ was genuine, and not a means to bring him closer to his ultimate goal of shagging someone else.

And _that_ was not a prospect which she was willing to ponder at length. It had been a long time, a very long time, since Jean had _wanted_ a man, had wanted to listen to him talk, wanted him to touch her. Overexposure, that's how she liked to explain it to the girls who asked why she'd never settled down, gotten married again; after spending so many years beholden to them Jean did not want to devote a single moment of her time now to thoughts of men and how they might fit within her life. She was freer now than she had ever been before, and she would not let any man, however handsome, however kind, take away her independence. She was quite happy as she was, thank you very much, and had not taken on a customer in nearly a decade, nor would she ever again. Everything in Jean's life was just the way she wanted it.

Except now, this. _Him._ This niggling voice in the back of her mind, wondering when she'd seen him again, if he'd have a pocket full of shillings and a mouth full of questions just for her. He'd asked about her children, had indirectly tried to ask about her husband, and though those questions had made her wary they had also touched her heart, in a way, for Jean could not recall when last any man, paying or otherwise, had thought to ask about her family, or even acknowledged that she had any sort of personal life at all.

 _He is a very strange man,_ she thought. But it was not an unpleasant kind of strange; he was different in a refreshing kind of way, a bit of gentility in an ofttimes cruel world.

"All right, that's enough," Jean said, not unkindly, drawing an end to the girls' animated conversations. "It's almost time. You lot go and get ready, I'll see to the washing up."

"I'll help, Mrs. Beazley," Sarah said while all around her the other girls rose from their stools and drifted towards the stairs, still laughing and talking merrily together. "I'm going out of my mind just sitting."

"I'll be grateful for the company," Jean told her, smiling. And she would be, for it would give her a distraction from her own traitorous thoughts and the memory of Doctor Blake's gentle blue eyes.

* * *

"So what, you're their doctor now?" Matthew asked him as they sat down together to dig into the dinner Mrs. Penny had left for them. They had no formal arrangement, as regarded how often they took meals together or on what days, but they were each of them confirmed bachelors without any romantic prospects whatsoever, and Mrs. Penny was a fine cook. The thought of sharing a meal with a friend was always more appealing than eating alone, and Matthew found his way to the Blake house more often than not, for which Lucien was very grateful.

"Apparently, my father used to look after them," Lucien told him, laughing as Matthew's eyebrow lifted incredulously.

"Bloody hell," Matthew grumbled. "I'd no idea."

"No, no, nor did I," Lucien said. "But someone's got to. That young lady only has a few weeks to go until her baby's due, and she's not been seen by a doctor once. Apparently Doctor King won't go near them."

"He's a miserable old bastard," Matthew told him grimly.

"So I've gathered."

"It's a good thing you're doing, Lucien, but you do need to be careful. Someone sees you going in there, they might get the wrong idea, and everything could unravel."

"If anyone has any questions I'd be happy to answer them. That pub is full of young women who need access to regular, reliable medical care, and it would be cruel not to help them when I can. It's not as if I'm...well. You know."

"Not a customer?" Matthew said. He did not quite laugh, but he came very close.

"No," Lucien answered. "Those girls, Matthew…they're...well. Do you know my daughter, my Li, she'll be twenty-three, if she's still living. And when I spoke to those girls last night I found myself wondering what she'd be like, now. If she'd be like them, friendly and happy. I wondered what I'd do, if I found out she was in a place like that. No, I'm not interested in becoming a customer."

"You're a good man, Blake," Matthew told him gruffly, around a bite of potatoes. "They don't get many of those, in there."

"I still don't understand why you haven't shut that place down, Matthew. I'm sure Mrs. Beazley takes perfectly good care of those girls but they shouldn't be there at all. And if everyone knows what they're up to-"

"I told you," Matthew shrugged. "She covers her tracks well. She learned from the best, and she knows exactly what to do, what to say. And honestly, I'd rather girls like that have a safe place to go than be stuck out on the street, or worse."

Lucien grunted. "Still, though. Is there something else? Some reason why you're so lenient with her in particular?"

For a long moment Matthew simply watched him, as if considering his answer. Belatedly Lucien realized the potential for disaster inherent in his question; what if Matthew was a customer? What if his relationship with Mrs. Beazley was more than Lucien had realized? What if Jean had purchased her pub's security through the only means available to her?

"I knew her husband," Matthew said finally, and shock crashed into Lucien with all the force of a train. It was the last thing he'd been expecting Matthew to say, and he felt a bit ashamed, now, for his unkind thoughts. He had known, of course, that Mrs. Beazley must have been married, but he had not expected to hear that her life and Matthew's could have been so closely linked. Matthew had referred to him in the past tense, and Lucien wondered then if he was dead, or gone. Wondered what sort of man he'd been, whether Jean missed him as Lucien missed his own wife, whether she lamented for what used to be, as he did in the still of the night.

"He was a good bloke," Matthew continued. "I liked him. And Jean's done the best she can, with him gone. And like I said, I'd rather her be in charge down there than leave all those girls to fend for themselves, or leave a hole for somebody worse to fill. Now, do you want to hear about our murder victim or not?"

"All right, all right," Lucien said, raising his hands in defeat. "What have you learned?"


	6. Chapter 6

_22 May 1959_

On Friday afternoon Lucien once more set off for the Lock and Key, the results from Sarah's tests tucked into his medical bag and a lightness to his steps. All week he had been looking forward to this, to having an excuse to return to the pub, to see Mrs. Beazley and her girls again, to learn a bit more about her in hopes of unraveling the mystery that had been presented to him.

There were so many questions swirling through his mind he could hardly decide where to begin. First among them was the matter of the dead girl who'd been fished out of the creek; her name was Lucille, and she'd last been seen in the company of Edward Tyneman, which Lucien liked not one bit. Matthew was insisting that Lucien's role in that investigation was done, that the police surgeon need not be involved any longer, but Lucien wasn't so sure. The Lock and Key seemed like just the sort of place a Tyneman might patronize, given their wealth and general disregard for other people, and perhaps the younger Tyneman worried less about reputation and appearance than his father did. Surely, Lucien thought, one or another of those girls must have crossed paths with him before.

After that, though, the remaining questions that plagued him were much more personal. How had Jean come to be wed, and how had Matthew come to know her husband, and what had become of the man? Where were her children now, why did she stay on in this business when surely she must have had other opportunities? How did she feel about the work? And had she ever been one of _them,_ those bright and cheerful girls in their beautiful dresses who sold themselves every evening? At first he'd thought that she must have been, that she had once been a _girl_ and had moved up through the ranks, as it were, until she found a comfortable position where she did not have to perform such work herself. Now he was not so sure; perhaps she was, and always had been, no more than a madam, a landlady. Perhaps she had been a perfectly respectable sort of woman, and inherited the pub when her husband died. He liked that idea, the idea that she looked after those girls but was not truly one of them; he liked it, but he did not want to think too long or too hard about why it mattered to him whether Mrs. Beazley herself had ever been for sale, or ever would be again. The answer to that question lurked somewhere in his own subconscious, in a place he did not dare tread, not yet, not now under the cheerful sun of an autumn afternoon.

Once more he parked several streets away, once more he walked along the pavement with a smile on his face, once more he ignored the _CLOSED_ sign and walked straight into the pub accompanied by the tinkling sound of the bell above the door. The dining room of the pub was deserted; it was too late for lunch and too early for supper, and none of the girls were about. _Perhaps I should have rung her first,_ Lucien thought as he gazed around the empty dining room, wondering if perhaps Mrs. Beazley was out, but of course he did not have the number for the pub, had not thought to ask, and whether it was right or wrong to drop by unannounced he did not have the means to correct his error. So what then should he do? Go right upstairs, uninvited, and try to locate Sarah's room from memory, and speak to her without Jean present? That didn't seem right somehow, but he did not want to leave Sarah for another day; she needed to hear what he had to say.

For a moment or two he agonized over what to do, but then he heard the sound of calling voices coming from behind the bar. There was a door back there, currently propped open, that must have led back to a kitchen, and it was through that door that those voices reached him, Mrs. Beazley's recognizable to him already. She was laughing, and quite before Lucien realized it he found himself following that sparkling little laugh, ducking behind the bar and then stepping straight through that door.

The door did, in fact, lead to the kitchen; there were sinks and stoves and ovens and a walk-in freezer back here, wooden crates of potatoes and carefully labeled bins of sugar and flour and salt, gleaming pots and pans hanging from hooks along the walls, everything in its proper place. The voices were not coming from the kitchen, exactly, but from just beyond it; on the far wall there were two double doors that opened up into the carpark, and it was there that he found Mrs. Beazley, helping a man with a heavy Greek accent to unload boxes of food and alcohol from his truck and stow them inside the pub.

For a moment Lucien simply watched her, for she was so lovely he could hardly find the strength to tear his eyes away. On this fine afternoon Mrs. Beazley wore a starched white shirt embroidered with a pattern of pale blue flowers, tucked smartly into a pair of _very_ well-fitted blue trousers. The sleeves of her shirt had been rolled up to her elbows to allow her freedom to work, and when she moved Lucien saw the flash of her ankle between her sensible suede pumps and the hem of those damanable trousers. Deftly Jean bent, her every move as graceful and enchanting as a ballet, caught hold of a box emblazoned with the logo of a popular bottled beer, and swung upright with the box in her arms, balanced on her hip, with all the practiced skill of a mother long accustomed to holding a child there. The shirt she wore fit her as well as those trousers did, and as she moved Lucien could see the movement of her muscles beneath it, silent evidence of a strength that seemed surprising given her delicate frame.

"Oh!" Jean called when she caught sight of him. "Doctor Blake. I didn't expect to see you there."

While she had been speaking Lucien rushed over to her, and he had only just reached her as he answered.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Beazley. May I help you with this?" he reached to take the box from her; if it was full of bottles it must have been quite heavy indeed, and though he had no doubt that Mrs. Beazley could handle it quite well all on her own some deeper, more chivalrous instinct compelled him to step in and offer his assistance.

The color was high in her cheeks, and a lock of her dark hair had escaped the confines of her coiffure to tumble enticingly across her pale forehead. In response to his offer she grinned, a bit wryly, but only tightened her grip upon the box she held.

"I can manage this perfectly well," she told him smoothly. "But if you want to make yourself useful, you could go and help Dimitri with the kegs? Many hands make light work."

Lucien grinned. "They do indeed."

* * *

Jean wasn't quite sure what to make of Doctor Blake's offer; did he really think she couldn't handle the weekly delivery on her own? Never once in the last ten years had Jean needed any assistance in taking care of her own business, and the idea that Doctor Blake might think her too weak to carry out her usual tasks was an affront to her sensibilities. And yet she did not think that was the case, not entirely; he had jumped at the chance to help Sarah without promise of payment or reward, only out of the goodness of his own heart, and she rather thought he was doing much the same now, offering to help because it was the right thing to do. As Jean dropped the box in its usual place against the wall she turned, and found that Doctor Blake had already removed his hat and shrugged out of his jacket, and was even now rolling back the sleeves of his shirt in preparation for the work ahead.

And for a moment, just one instant, Jean found herself frozen, watching him. She had known, of course, that he was broad-shouldered and well-muscled, but she had not realized quite how _much,_ not until now when she could see the bunching and flexing of his muscles beneath his crisp white shirt. Utterly oblivious to her attentions Doctor Blake turned and marched smartly out into the carpark, and the view of his retreating form revealed one rather well-made bum previously hidden beneath his dark jacket, and Jean's cheeks flushed pink at the very thought. Handsome, and strong, and kind, always willing to lend a hand; Jean was beginning to suspect that Doctor Blake would bring trouble, as his father had always said he would, though not at all in the way she had expected.

When Jean stepped out into the carpark she found Dimitri and the good doctor laughing together, speaking in a broken mix of Greek and English that seemed to suit them both. Of course Doctor Blake spoke a little Greek, she thought; he was well-traveled and wealthy, and would have had the means to dabble in all sorts of learning. She wanted to dislike him for it, but his smile was so very gentle, his eyes so very warm, and he had without hesitation jumped into the back of Dimitri's truck, beginning to roll the first of the week's kegs down the little ramp Dimitri had propped against the truck, his muscles rippling while he worked. In Jean's experience men like the Doctor always had other people to do the heavy lifting for them - Thomas Blake had certainly never lifted a finger in manual labor in his life - but Lucien was smiling, and did not seem at all disgruntled about having been pressed into this service. And so Jean smiled, and scooped up the nearest case of whiskey, propping it on her hip and carrying it into the kitchen with her thoughts racing.

The addition of Doctor Blake's strong arms did indeed help the time to pass more quickly; he and Dimitri seemed to get on quite well together, and laughed as they rolled the kegs into the pub, though Jean could only seem to catch about every third word of their conversation, and so had no idea what made them both so merry. The produce had already been unloaded and neatly stowed away, and so it took no more than a quarter of an hour for them to complete their work. When it was finished Doctor Blake's face was flushed above his neat beard but he was smiling widely, and he shook Dimitri's hand in an easy, gregarious sort of manner not common among men of his social standing.

"You keep him here, Jeannie," Dimitri told her, clapping the Doctor on the back. "I like this one. He is good man, yes? Good friend."

"Yes," Jean answered, noting the way Doctor Blake seemed to beam at the praise. "He's handy to have around. I'll see you next week, Dimitri."

" _Ta Leme,_ Jeannie," he said, and then with a jovial wave he was off, closing the back of his truck and whistling to himself as he went.

And so Jean found herself once again alone with Doctor Blake, and for some reason the sight of him without his jacket, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the thick length of his forearms, made her just a little nervous. Their acquaintance was so very new she did not know yet what sort of relationship they might establish for themselves, and that troubled her. It had been easy, with old Doctor Blake; he was _the Doctor,_ would come to offer his expertise and very little else. There had been a few occasions when a birth or illness kept him longer at the pub than he might otherwise have stayed, and Jean had offered him a cup of tea and they had spoken quietly together, but there had never been any doubt, even in those somewhat more relaxed moments, that they inhabited very different worlds, and the lines between them had never blurred into true friendship. Lucien, on the other hand….well. She did not know yet what it was he would become to her, but his willingness to step in today seemed to indicate a sort of egalitarian gregariousness that she did not have the first idea how to manage.

"Well," she said, turning to face him then. "I think you've earned a cup of tea, Doctor Blake. Unless there's somewhere else you need to be."

"A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you, Mrs. Beazley. I really ought to put myself together before I go see to Sarah."

Of course, he had not stopped by only to help her; somehow Jean had forgotten during the course of their work that he must have had some other purpose. Perhaps it would have been more appropriate to send him straight upstairs to tend to his patient rather than waylaying him with the promise of tea, but now that the offer had been made she could see no graceful way to rescind it, and did not really want to, in any case. And so they trooped back into the kitchen, Jean pausing to lock the exterior doors while the Doctor retrieved his jacket.

* * *

While he slung his jacket over his arm and plucked up his hat from the worktop where he'd left it Jean bustled about with all the calm efficiency of a publican. He followed behind her, to a corner of the kitchen where a pair of stools flanked the edge of a stovetop on which there sat an ancient, old fashioned copper kettle. Jean fired up the stove with one hand and reached above it with the other, pulling down two china cups painted with an intricate design of flowers. With the kettle heating up and the teacups retrieved she reached next for a box of loose tea, and a porcelain bowl of sugar, painted to match the cups. There was something wonderfully domestic about it all, Lucien thought, the old kettle and those cups seeming more like the sort of thing one might find in a woman's home kitchen, rather than tucked away in the back corner of a brothel.

"We can have a seat while we wait," Jean said, gesturing towards the stools, and so they did, together, plopping themselves down so that they sat one on either side of the corner of the stove.

Lucien smiled at her, but no words came to him. He had thanked her for the tea once already, and to do so again would sound somewhat inane, he thought. He wanted, very much, to ask about her husband, but it was not the sort of question he could broach without any warning; he must lead up to it carefully. That he was approaching his conversation with Jean in much the same way he might approach a suspect involved in a murder did not escape his notice, and he fretted over that, just a bit. She was not a witness, and this was not an interview, but still, there were so many questions he wanted to ask he hardly knew where to begin. Jean saved him from himself, however; perhaps the many years she'd spent in this line of work had taught her how to manage all sorts of conversations, under all sorts of circumstances.

"Did the police ever find out what happened to that poor girl?" she asked. Though sitting on a stool and maintaining one's dignity was not an easy feat she managed it, somehow; she sat with her back ramrod straight, her legs daintily crossed at the ankle, her hands folded together neatly in her lap. For his part Lucien felt much too big for his seat, his feet planted firmly on the floor and his elbows resting on his knees as he leaned towards her.

"No, actually," Lucien answered, grateful for the opening she'd given him. "Her description matches the girl we discussed. That girl's name was Lucille, and according to a few of your young ladies she was desperate for a way to earn some income. The police have spoken to a few other people, and they reckon they remember seeing Edward Tyneman with a girl of her description. Of course, this was all months ago, and no one can be entirely certain."

"Edward Tyneman," Jean said, frowning. "That's a worry."

"What do you know about him, Mrs. Beazley? I'm afraid I'm only acquainted with his father." _And I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him, but he doesn't seem the sort to get involved with a desperate girl like this._

"Patrick is a businessman. He knows how to protect his interests, and he takes care of his reputation. The family has always been wealthy, but Patrick has worked to grow that wealth. Edward hasn't ever worked at anything, as far as I can tell."

The words were spoken with a certain air of distaste, and it was plain that Mrs. Beazley was not fond of the younger Tyneman in the least. _There's not a thing that happens in this town she doesn't know about,_ Matthew had told him once, and Lucien felt a sudden hope rise up in his chest. The police's inquiries had stalled, but Lucien felt as if he were on the verge of a breakthrough, sitting here with her.

"Has he ever been a customer here?" he asked eagerly, hoping she would say _yes,_ that she would tell him Edward Tyneman was exactly the sort of man to take advantage of a young girl.

"Once," Jean said darkly. "And after that, I told him to never show his face here again. He's...boorish, and prone to anger. I don't need his kind of trouble here."

 _That_ was an alarming thought. From what little he'd learned about her Lucien could see that Jean took the safety of her girls quite seriously, and though she did not offer any explanation as to what Edward might have done that got him banned from the Lock and Key her expression spoke volumes.

"So if he's looking for a girl, he'd have to find her on his own," Lucien mused.

"You might go and have a look at Ealing Estate," Jean told him. "It's an old property that's been in the Tyneman family for years. No one lives there now, but...I've heard things. I believe Edward uses it when he wants to...entertain himself. And you might talk to Adam, the projectionist at the Rex, he's a good friend of Edward's. If Edward got into any sort of trouble, Adam would know about it."

"I will do that, Mrs. Beazley, thank you."

The kettle had begun to whistle, then, and so Jean rose deftly to her feet, carefully pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves she'd arranged in strainers above each cup. She'd given him a great deal to think about; an old, unoccupied family estate, a troublesome, perhaps violent young man with more money than sense, a projectionist...Lucien wasn't sure how a man like Edward Tyneman might entertain himself, but he _was_ sure that whatever he got up to couldn't be innocent fun. Especially not given the way Mrs. Beazely had spoken of him. The police might be too afraid of Patrick to investigate his boy in any serious way, but Lucien felt no such restraints. If they wouldn't ask the questions, he'd be happy to do so himself.

"We'll just let that steep for a moment," Jean said, settling down on her stool while the tea steamed merrily in its little cups.

"Do you often get troublesome gentlemen in here, Mrs. Beazley?"

The question slipped past his lips before Lucien could stop it. The thought of Edward Tyneman, and what he might have done to make Jean dislike him so, had led Lucien's mind to other, darker places. Over the course of his life he'd heard all manner of stories, about the violence inflicted upon prostitutes by their customers, the dangers they faced, and while the Lock and Key was cheery and bright the specter of Edward Tyneman had given Lucien cause to wonder whether Jean and her girls were safe from such treatment, or if violence visited them here just as it visited their sisters in less comfortable places.

"Not usually, no," Jean told him evenly. "I always have security on the door, and our rates keep the more troublesome sort out. The kind of men who can spend ten pounds for an hour with one of my girls aren't usually the kind of men looking to cause trouble."

"Ten pounds?" Lucien repeated, faintly shocked. He had wondered, before now, what Mrs. Beazley's girls charged for their services, and he had known it was rather a lot, but he had not realized it was a week's wages. He could see the wisdom of it, the way it protected her, for most men could not afford to spend so very much in one evening, and certainly could not have hoped to hide such an expense from their wives.

"We run a sterling service here, Doctor Blake," Jean told him primly. "It's clean, and it's quiet, and it's discrete. If a customer doesn't want to pay our price then he's welcome to look elsewhere."

"They all charge the same, then?"

Jean leaned over to check the teacups and, apparently satisfied with their progress, she carefully removed the strainers before handing one cup to Lucien and taking the other for herself.

"Each girl can set her own rate," Jean told him. "Some may go as low as seven, and others may go as high as fifteen. Every girl has something different to offer, and they know their own worth."

"And what about you, Mrs. Beazley?"

Something flashed in her eyes, dangerous and warning, and it was only then that Lucien realized he had just tread on thin ice. Their conversation so far had been pleasant, and it had not escaped his notice that she had not charged him for it. Perhaps she'd thought his assistance with the delivery was sufficient payment for the information she gave him, but his questions had wandered away from the investigation and onto far more personal matters. From the moment he met her Lucien had been eaten alive with curiosity, wondering how she'd gotten into this business, and how involved in it she was, and his eagerness had betrayed him now. Jean had struck him from the very first as a private, proper sort of woman, and his question was most _improper,_ and so he waited with bated breath, wondering if she was about to throw him out for his gross breach of the rules of etiquette she had set down between them.

"I don't do that any more, Doctor Blake," she told him primly. "I'm management now. Besides, you couldn't afford me. Drink your tea."


	7. Chapter 7

_22 May 1959_

_"I don't do that any more, Doctor Blake," she told him primly. "I'm management now. Besides, you couldn't afford me. Drink your tea."_

Those words ricocheted round the inside of Lucien's head like so many tiny bullets, shattering all conscious thought, and his hands moved as if her quiet order had compelled them, reaching for his tea cup and bringing it slowly to his lips. Almost from the moment he met her Lucien had been wondering about her history, about how a woman so otherwise refined and polite and dignified could possibly be involved in such a sordid business, had been wondering just deep her ties to the Lock and Key ran, just how she had come to be in this place. _I don't do that any more_ had answered at least one of his questions; she _had,_ then, at one point in time, done _that,_ had been one of those girls in their beautiful dresses who lined the walls of this place in the evening. She had stood in the dining room, just beyond the warm kitchen where they sat now, had smiled at a strange man, let him take her hand, had led him up the stairs, and collected her pay when his hour was through.

 _How many?_ Lucien wondered as he looked at her now. How long had she done such work, how much grief had it brought her, how many crumpled notes and piles of coins and dreams for a better day had she collected, only to be laid waste as she continued to live and work here at the pub? How many men had touched her, how many of them had turned her stomach, how many of them had hurt her? How many of them had been kind, how many of them had been gentle? How many of them had fallen half in love with her, tried to take her away, only for her to smile sadly and shake her head, and insist that this was her home? And did he know any of these men, these men who ventured out to the Lock and Key under cover of darkness, these men who were willing to spend ten pounds, or more, for a tumble with a girl whose face they would forget the next day? There had to be some overlap, Lucien was sure, between the clientele of the Lock and Key and the members of the Colonists' Club. How many of those stodgy old men had once been young and looking for mischief, and seen Jean, with her clear bright eyes and her wicked smile, her slim hips and neat breasts, and thought _I'll have that?_

In the moment Lucien was quite grateful that he did not have the answers to those particular questions, for he feared that if he did, if he knew for certain that Patrick Tyneman or Keith Morrisey or any of the others had once paid for a tumble with Mrs. Beazley, he would not be able to resist the urge to thrash them on sight when next he entered the Club. She deserved better than such treatment, no matter how willingly she accepted it, and a fierce sort of rage welled up within him, a need to right that wrong. Whether it was a simple desire for justice or some darker, less noble impulse that drove his urge to protect her Lucien could not say, and he did not dare examine his feelings too closely.

_Besides, you couldn't afford me._

The words had been spoken in a cool, confident sort of way; he did not think she'd necessarily intended it as a challenge. She'd said it as calmly as if she were remarking on the weather; it was a statement of fact. It was clear that along with a dubious sort of power her position as madam also afforded her a certain amount of prestige; she was above that life, now, no longer _one of the girls._ And yet, the implication was that, for the right price, she could still be bought, like everything else in the Lock and Key. That price was likely extravagant - though Lucien could not help but wonder if it was quite as high as she made it out to be; his father had left him a small fortune, as well as a house and a car and two paying professions. It wasn't as if Mrs. Beazley was privy to his personal finances; her price might have been too high for most men, but Lucien Blake wasn't most men, and he had more than enough means. The only way to find out for certain, of course, would be to ask her outright what she would charge for an hour, or an evening, but even Lucien knew better than to do such a thing, not now when he'd already ruffled her feathers and she was watching him carefully over the rim of her teacup.

 _Anything can be purchased, for the right price,_ Lucien thought as he looked at her. It was a strange thought, and a sad one; whatever else Jean was or once had been, she was a person, whole and complete, and to Lucien's mind no person should ever be bought or sold. No life, no matter how small or undignified, could be worth a bare few pounds. It was a strange thought, and a sad one, but it burrowed through his mind and lodged itself somewhere deep in his subconscious, where all the ghosts and dark things that haunted him in the still of the night lived in restless agitation, and there it made its home, that wisp of a thought. Jean, lovely Jean, clever Jean, Jean with her strong, slender arms, her soft laugh, her deft hands, Jean with her red-painted nails and her red-painted lips, _Jean_ could be had, for the right price. It would take more than a few shillings, he knew, but if he were willing to pay it, she would be willing to accept it. Just like that.

"Have I shocked you, Doctor Blake?" Jean asked quietly, still holding her tea cup to her lips as she watched him war with himself.

"Not at all, Mrs. Beazley," he answered carefully. "I knew what sort of place this was. How you conduct your business is entirely your own affair."

"Yes, it is," she told him. "I am grateful for your help, Doctor Blake, and your friendship, but judgement will not serve either of us."

"I don't mean to judge you," he said then. "The world can be hard, and cruel, and we all do what we must to survive." A memory rose up in his mind, then, a dented can of pineapple clutched tight between two hands that hardly looked like his own, all skin and bones after two years of starvation and desperation. He could still feel it, even now, the corrugated metal cool under his fingertips, the way the contents sloshed when he lifted the can, the shattering pain of rifle butt connecting with his knee, the sound the can made when it toppled from his grip and rolled across the bare wood floor. Lucien had nearly traded his own life for a can of fruit, and yes, he knew what deprivation and isolation and hunger could do.

"When you say that I can almost believe that you mean it," Jean told him softly, sitting her teacup down on its saucer and folding her hands together in her lap. "Most of the men who come through that door don't know the first thing about survival. Why do I feel as if you do?"

Lucien smiled at her, a bit sadly. "My dear Mrs. Beazley," he said, "you aren't the only one who can keep a secret. Now, Is Sarah up and about? I have the results of her tests and I think we've kept her waiting long enough."

* * *

Once more Jean led Doctor Blake up the stairs, once more knocked softly on Sarah's bedroom door, once more opened that door and ushered Doctor Blake inside. He had not spoken again, as they ventured upstairs to check in on their patient; he had slid back into his jacket, placed his hat upon his head, and followed along behind her without complaint. They had passed a pleasant few moments together, unloading the delivery, talking over their tea, but something about their conversation had made him quiet, and contemplative, and that quiet unnerved Jean now.

She hadn't meant to say it. It had been over a decade since last Jean had entertained a customer, and though more than a few gentlemen had tried to talk her round in that time Jean had remained firm in her conviction that the lady of the house ought not stoop to such means - except in cases of direst calamity. And yet she had not said as much to Doctor Blake, had not told him just how long it had been since she was one of the girls, had not let it go at _I don't do that any more._ She should have done, but she hadn't. She'd meant those next words flippantly - _besides, you couldn't afford me -_ had intended only to make a jab at his ego, after he jabbed at hers. It was Doctor Blake, after all, who'd asked her what she was worth, and he deserved it, she thought, to hear that the answer was _more than you could dream to offer, Doctor._ But it hadn't come out like a jibe, or an admonition; those words had left her lips, and in them she could hear a sort of challenge she hadn't meant to make.

What if he _could_ afford her, after all? What if he dared to make such an offer?

 _Rule number one,_ Jean always told her girls, _is no matter what, no matter when, you can say no. You can say no to anyone you want, for any reason._ They knew when their rent was due, and what it would cost to keep their rooms another month, and how the girls came up with the money was entirely their own affair, as far as Jean was concerned. If they played their cards right and the customers were in a good mood most of the girls could get by working only two or three nights a week. There weren't a lot of aspects of their own lives those girls could control, but that one thing Jean gave them. _You can say no._

Would _she_ say no, if Doctor Blake offered? Would she want to?

"Good afternoon, Sarah," the doctor said softly, taking off his hat and bowing his head politely to the girl. "I've got the results of your tests back."

His calm, professional demeanor reminded Jean of their purpose here, and so she crossed the room quickly, perched on the side of Sarah's bed and took hold of her hand. God had given Jean Beazley two sons and no living daughters, and yet she'd had two dozen, three dozen of them over the years, girls of all ages from all corners of the world who had come to light, however briefly, upon her doorstep. Whether they stayed for a month or a year or seven made no difference; Jean loved them all, dearly, and treated them as her own flesh and blood. The world had not been kind to any of them, and Jean did her best to make up for that hardship where she could. 

"I'm afraid you're anemic, Sarah," Doctor told her, and the corner of Jean's mouth quirked up in a triumphant sort of way. Doctor Blake's fancy education and convoluted tests had only confirmed what Jean already knew. Jean had been pregnant three times herself, and had overseen the delivery of at least eight babies during her tenure at the Lock and Key. She knew what to look for, the warning signs of so many different illnesses, could diagnose and treat most maladies as deftly as any nurse.

The doctor droned on, about the supplements he'd brought for Sarah to take, how he was concerned about her blood pressure, how he thought she might closer to nine months along than to eight, despite her vehement protests. He was gentle, and kind, and he listened when Sarah spoke, and all the while Jean just watched him, the deft movements of his broad, strong hands, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the soft parting of his lips beneath his beard. _He is a very strange man,_ she thought, _but a good one, just the same._


	8. Chapter 8

_29 May 1959_

It was a bad idea. Lucien knew it was a bad idea, in the same way that he knew pouring a fourth glass of whiskey would not do him any favors, in the same way he knew that if he smoked a cigarette in his parlor the smell would sink itself into the wallpaper in the most unpleasant way. He knew it was a bad idea, just as he had known that going to Ealing Estate on his own was a bad idea, just as Matthew Lawson had warned him that it was. But knowing that something was a bad idea had never been sufficient to stop Lucien from doing exactly as he pleased; life was too short to be concerned with consequences, he thought.

And so, on a cool Friday night in late autumn he parked his car in the lot behind a bakery that had closed for the evening, and walked along the pavement with his hat pulled down low over his eyes and his hands stuck in his coat pockets. It was a bad idea, he knew, to venture to this place on what must surely be their busiest night of the week, and to do so at this time of night was doubly foolish. He was risking his reputation, and both his general practice and his position as police surgeon. Yet those concerns did not stop him, did not even slow his steps, for when Lucien Blake wanted something he did not let anything stand in his way.

There was no _CLOSED_ sign on the door, not now, and the tinkling sound of the bell that announced his arrival was welcoming indeed. When he entered Lucien had expected to find the pub packed with customers, had expected to be greeted by a tumult of noise, but to his surprise there were less than a dozen men gathered in the dining room, and only three girls that he could see. Each of those girls was currently engaged in conversation with a gentleman, leaning against the bar or the back of his chair, watching her quarry with wide, bright eyes, and Lucien did not need to hear what they were saying to know what those girls were about. There was a table in the far corner where two older gentlemen in fine black suits were in the midst of a heated conversation, their heads bowed low over their pint glasses, and the bar was lined with men sitting on those old wood stools and staunchly refusing to acknowledge one another's presence. It was not the girls who drew Lucien's attention, however, nor was it the men who had come to buy them; his gaze went at once to the booth in the far corner where, despite the muted light he could just make out the glint of a pair of knitting needles. Grinning, then, he swiped his hat from his head, and made his way over to that booth at once.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked her, gesturing towards the bench with his hat.

Mrs. Beazley did not look up from her knitting, but she smiled, just the same.

"Not at the moment, no," she told him. If she had been any other woman Lucien would have taken that as all the invitation he needed to sit down at once, but this was Jean, and Lucien had learned just how particular she was about the niceties.

"Would you mind if I joined you?"

She looked quite pretty tonight, he thought. Though her skirt was hidden from view beneath the table he could see that the soft blue blouse she wore fit her well. Her makeup was, as usual, flawless, but the modest blue shade she'd painted above her eyes not only matched her blouse beautifully, but served to draw out the color of those storm-tossed eyes, to leave him breathless and staring at their beauty as if only just seeing her for the first time. Unconcerned by his attention she carried on with her knitting; they'd met just under a fortnight before, and in that time she appeared to have made great strides with her little project, for Lucien could see now that she was knitting a soft white blanket. A present for Sarah's unborn baby, perhaps, he realized, and smiled at the thought.

"Not at all, Doctor Blake," she told him, and so with her permission Lucien settled himself on the bench beside her, careful to place his hat by his side, and not on the table. Though she had not charged him for their previous conversation Lucien decided it would be prudent not to push his luck any further, and so before he spoke a word he reached into his pocket and produced a single shilling, laying it flat on the table and sliding it towards Mrs. Beazley.

She looked up from her knitting, and her gaze fell at once on the coin. She looked at the shilling, and then she looked at Lucien, one eyebrow raised in an almost accusatory sort of way. Lucien frowned, scooped another shilling from his pocket and added it to the first. This seemed to satisfy her; Mrs. Beazley gathered up both coins and made them disappear beneath the table before returning to her knitting.

"Where are all the girls?" he asked her curiously, looking around him. "I'd thought you'd be doing fine trade this evening."

"We are," Jean told him primly. "You ought to know by now, Doctor, that most of our business takes place upstairs."

Lucien grinned; of course she was right. The rest of the girls must be upstairs already, he realized, already entertaining customers, already earning their night's wages.

"What brings you here this evening, Doctor?" she asked him.

Lucien crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the booth. What _had_ brought him here? There were plenty of other places he could have gone; he could have been sitting having a pint with Matthew, instead of sitting in a brothel with no drink at all to occupy him. Mrs. Beazley had her cup of tea and her biscuit, and as his gaze settled there it occurred to Lucien that it was not whiskey he wanted, but some of her tea, in one of her china cups with the flower pattern painted on the side.

"Edward Tyneman almost certainly killed Lucille," he told her.

It wasn't what he meant to say, but the words came spilling out of him just the same. Jean sucked in a sharp breath, and then laid her knitting to the side. She raised one hand, and caught the eye of the girl who was pulling pints behind the bar, and then she gestured to her tea cup. The girl seemed to understand what she meant, and rushed away, and then Jean turned her full attention to Lucien.

"Are you certain?" she asked him urgently. "I haven't heard anything-"

"And you won't. We can't prove it. We know that she was with him. We know that he has been coercing girls to - I'm terribly sorry to be so blunt, Mrs. Beazley, but he has been forcing these girls to perform indecent acts while he films it. We found a bit of badly damaged film that seems to show Lucille with Edward, but we can't definitively prove it's her. He's being charged with the production and distribution of pornography, but we won't be able to charge him with murder."

Even Jean's frown was lovely, soft and sad. She listened to him intently as he spoke, and when he finished she folded her hands together in her lap, and looked down at her teacup for a long moment.

"Will he go to prison, do you think?" she asked him softly.

"Yes, he-"

"Excuse me." It was the girl Jean had called out from behind the bar; she carried a tray on which there lay a full tea service, a steaming pot and small bowl of sugar and a cup for Lucien and a full plate of biscuits.

"Thank you, Lorraine," Jean said, offering her a warm, genuine sort of smile.

"Yes, thank you very much," Lucien echoed. The girl - Lorraine - blushed prettily, and then danced away from them, back to the bar and her waiting customers. Jean's soft hands with their red-painted fingernails reached for the teapot, and Lucien watched in silence as she poured a cup for him, handing it over to him when she was finished.

"Sugar?"

"A bit, thank you," he answered. There was a small set of silver tongs lying next to the sugar bowl, and Jean carefully lifted out a single cube for him, dropping it into his cup and then offering him a small silver spoon with which to stir it.

"Thank you," he murmured again, softer this time, and then he began to stir his tea, watching it swirl around the cup in a contemplative sort of silence.

"It isn't exactly justice," Jean said, picking up her own tea cup and settling back against the booth. "If he killed Lucille, he should answer for her murder. But you've done your best, Doctor Blake. What he did to those girls, the ones in the films, that's a crime, too. And he'll go to prison. Not for life, not for as long as he would have if he'd been charged with murder, but he will go, and he will pay for some of his crimes."

"Is that enough?" Lucien asked, still staring morosely at his tea. He honestly didn't know.

"It has to be," Jean told him gently.

Lucien did not know how many of the girls who appeared in the films they'd discovered at Ealing Estate had been unwilling participants; some of them might have agreed to it quite happily. Some of them, like the girls in Jean's pub, might have been willing to do just about anything, for the right price. And technically, the business Jean ran here was a crime, too. Technically, she should be in prison for operating a brothel, profiting off of the work those girls did. But what was legal was not always right, and some actions that counted as crimes were not always wrong; the world was painted in shades of grey, and Lucien was still learning to distinguish one from the other. There was no doubt in his mind that Edward Tyneman was wrong, and cruel, and deserving of punishment. As for Jean, well…

"Thank you, Doctor," she said to him softly.

"For what?" As far as Lucien could see he'd done absolutely nothing to merit praise of any sort.

"For caring about what happened to Lucille. For trying to find justice for her. Most people wouldn't care about a girl like that."

Jean was watching him thoughtfully over the rim of her teacup, those grey-blue eyes haunting and focused completely on him. What a beauty she was; the wrong side of forty, perhaps, too old to still be in this business, the soft skin at her eyes and lips wrinkled with the passage of time, but she was slender, and graceful, and the high, sharp rise of her cheeks, the pink fullness of her lips, the sharp brilliance of her grey eyes, everything about her combined into quite the loveliest picture, and Lucien was all but spellbound just looking at her. She fascinated him, as no other woman had done for quite some time, and he was powerless to resist her.

"Someone has to stand up for girls like that," he told her gently. "And I think you know that better than most, Mrs. Beazley. You do it every day."

She had been a _girl like that_ once herself, and now she gave those girls a home, and three hot meals a day, gave them friendship and support, gave them safety, gave them her love. She knew their names, and treated them kindly, and opened her doors to them, gave them a place in a world that had turned its back on them. It was Mrs. Beazley, he thought, who deserved thanks.

"They're my family, Doctor," she answered simply. "And family means we take care of each other."

"What about your sons?"

It was a bad idea, he knew, to ask such a question. The conversation had been rolling smoothly along between them, but he had already discovered that it was wise to steer away from personal questions, lest Mrs. Beazley grow cross with him. She guarded her privacy fiercely, and he could hardly fault her for that, but there was still so very much he wanted to know about her. For a moment she watched him warily, and then she held out her hand to him, palm up, and he grinned, rushing to obey her silent demand. He dug another shilling from his pocket and placed it in the center of her hand, his fingertips brushing against soft warm skin for a fraction of a second before she took that shilling, too, and made it disappear beneath the table.

"I love my boys," she told him, and then she took a sip of tea, seeming to gather her thoughts. "But they don't need me so much, anymore. Young Christopher is a soldier. He has a wife and a house of his own, and he's built a good life for himself. And Jack...well. Jack still needs me, but he won't let me help, and there's nothing I can do about that. He's a man, now, and he has to make his own choices, whether I like it or not."

Jean had told him once how old the boys were, and he recalled that now because her Christopher, at twenty-three years old, was the same as Lucien's Li. Or the same age she would be, if she was still living. Though they had been separated by an ocean, though neither of them was aware the other even existed, though Jean looked to be several years younger than Lucien himself, their children had been born around the same time. There had been a day, once, when they had both been holding their babies in their arms, dreaming of their futures, united in that love of their children. Had Jean known, then, what that future would hold in store for her? Was she already working in the trade, or had she not yet realized the course her life would take? Lucien had not known, when Li was born, the fear, the horror, the violence, that pain that waited for him. If he had known….well. What he might have done, if he'd only been given the gift of foresight, didn't matter so much now, he supposed. The past was the past, and there was nothing he could do to change it now.

He did not know, now, where his Li was. There was a private investigator in Hong Kong, still dutifully searching for Li and for her mother, but it had been nearly two decades without word. At least Jean seemed to know where her own sons were, but there was such sorrow in her when she spoke of them, disappointment and regret, and Lucien, wanted so very badly, to spill out his own story in the hopes that it might encourage her to do the same, that they might share the grief and the joy of their own experiences of parenthood, and become better friends for it.

"I think my father felt much the same way about me," Lucien told her carefully, keeping his thoughts about Li to himself for the moment, and focusing instead on what Jean had told him about her boys. "I'm afraid I caused him no end of grief."

"But he still loved you, Doctor Blake," she answered, smiling that sad, beautiful smile of hers. "You were his son. And no matter how much trouble you caused -" Lucien laughed - "he never stopped loving you. And I love my boys, even when they do things I'd rather they didn't."

"I think Patrick Tyneman loves Edward, in his own way," Lucien mused, his thoughts running away with him. "Even now, after everything, I think he can't help but look at Edward, and see the little boy he used to be, and he loves him."

"They'll always be our children," she said softly. "What's your son's name?"

It was a clever question, asked quickly, smoothly, deftly, intended no doubt to throw him off his guard and garner an immediate, truthful response. Lucien had not told Jean that he was a father himself, but she had heard his words, his quiet musing, and drawn her own conclusions. She had, very neatly, seen straight through the heart of him. For a moment Lucien considered asking for his shilling back as payment for an answer to her question, but he found he wanted to talk about Li more than he wanted to tease Jean.

"My daughter's name is Li," he told her.

The corner of Jean's mouth quirked up into a smile, as she realized that she had been - mostly - correct in assuming that Lucien was a father.

"Where is she now, your Li?" Jean was watching him curiously, her delicate hands still wrapped around her teacup.

"I don't know," Lucien confessed. "But I've never stopped looking for her, and I never will."

Jean watched him for a moment, and then she set her teacup down, and reached out to place a gentle hand on his forearm.

"I'm so sorry, Lucien," she told him earnestly.

There was so much more Lucien wanted to say. He wanted to tell Jean about his wife, about his daughter, about the Japanese invasion, about the stink and the squalor of the camp, about the years he'd spent spying for his country, about the ocean's worth of whiskey he'd drunk trying to quiet the ghosts that haunted his conscience. He wanted to tell her that she was beautiful, that he missed his daughter with everything he had, that he could not help but wonder if their children would get along, should they ever meet. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, but the words would not come. He simply covered her hand with his own where it rested against his arm, and smiled at her sadly.

"I'm sorry, too," he said.


	9. Chapter 9

_5 June1959_

Jean was singing. Soft and sweet, her voice floated on the air, the words coming to Lucien as if from very far away, a memory of love and comfort. Lucien watched her from his perch at the end of the bed, exhaustion sinking into his bones. Lucien watched her, sitting still and silent with his hands clasped in his lap; Lucien watched her while she swayed, and sang.

She had no right to look beautiful, in that moment. It was very late, and Jean had endured a long and trying day. A lock of her hair had tumbled free from its pins to fall charmingly across her forehead, and there was a smear of something - blood, maybe, or something worse, but if it was Lucien would rather not know - across one of her pale cheeks. The feeble light from the bedside lamp bled the cheery hues out of her blue trousers and left them looking more grey than anything else, and her usually prim blouse had begun to wrinkle, though it remained smartly tucked in. She had no right to look beautiful, standing there, swaying, singing, but he could see the soft smile on her face, could see the bright shine of her eyes, and in her voice he could hear joy, and hope, and love, and in that moment he was certain that he had never, in his life, heard a more beautiful sound than this one.

The reason for Jean's gentle smile, the reason for the soft song she sang, was cradled in her arms. There, wrapped in the soft white blanket Jean had been dutifully knitting for weeks now, there in Jean's arms lay a beautiful baby girl, sleeping peacefully, now, when only moments before she had been screaming full-throated and righteous.

Jean had rung him what seemed like a lifetime before while he was at the station. That had raised more than a few eyebrows, he knew, the police surgeon taking a phone call from the local madam while he was at work, but Mrs. Beazley had need of a doctor, and Doctor Blake could deny her nothing. Sarah's labor had begun and the girl was beginning to work herself into a state, and _I'd hate to trouble you, Doctor, but she's asked for you. Do you think you might be able to call round, and check in on her?_

And he had said yes, and come at once, for as far as Lucien was concerned this was precisely the reason he had become a doctor. Not, as his father had done, because it was a respectable profession and the one his family expected him to pursue; no, Lucien had chosen medicine for moments just like this one, moments when he could step in and _help,_ could stand beside a person who was suffering and shoulder some of their load. He had chosen to become a doctor so that he could put his hands to good use, so that he could make the world better, safer, kinder, at least in some small part. He had become a doctor because he could not leave a hurt to fester unchecked. Sarah was young, and frightened, scorned by society; she had neither family nor money, and no one else to turn to for help.

No one except for Jean, of course. Jean had met Lucien at the door, when he arrived at the pub, had walked him up to Sarah's room while giving him an accounting of her progress, and Jean's own predictions for the birth. _She's hardly the first to give birth here_ , Jean told him when he expressed some surprise at how well she seemed to be handling the situation; _it's her first baby, but it certainly isn't mine._ No, Jean'd had two babies of her own, had wept and struggled and bled and brought forth her sons from her own body, and then she had sat at the bedside of countless girls over the years and helped them to bring children of their own into the world. Jean had learned from each of those experiences, and brought all of her formidable knowledge and willpower to bear.

But she brought compassion, too, and kindness, and the gentle touch of a mother when Sarah needed one most. There was no telling where Sarah's mother was, what sort of woman she had been, whether Sarah loved her or recalled her fondly, but there was no doubt in Lucien's mind that Jean had served beautifully in that woman's stead, holding Sarah's hand, gently brushing her sweat-slicked hair back from her forehead. It was Jean who encouraged Sarah when she stumbled, Jean who held her hand and braced her through the pain, Jean who cradled her child now, keeping the baby warm and safe while Sarah rested.

It had been quite some time since last Lucien officiated a birth, and he was truly grateful that Sarah's delivery had been mercifully uncomplicated. Jean probably could have overseen the whole procedure herself, but he was glad she had rung for him; he was glad to be sitting here, quietly, at the end of a long day, watching Jean with that baby in her arms, knowing that they had done this thing, together. They had, all three of them, been united in this fight for hours. In the beginning Sarah had been nervous but excited, had laughed, a little, had walked around the upstairs of the pub on Jean's arm, stretching her legs and passing the time. As afternoon wore into evening, however, the pain became more acute, and Sarah was relegated to her bed.

And there she lay, through all that came after; Lucien and Jean had done their best to bolster her flagging reserves. They told her stories, while they waited for the contractions to pass, stories of their own babies, stories of love, and happy families. Lucien had told Sarah of blue waters on distant shores, and Jean had whispered tales of places closer to home where a new mother and her baby might start fresh, if fresh was what they wanted. They talked, and talked, until Lucien's throat was raw, until his eyes stung from the tears that longed to fall each time he looked at Jean. She had known love, once, he knew that now, could see that love written in every line of her face as she looked in wonder at the baby she now held cradled in her arms. Jean had been loved, once, had loved, once, but Jean was here, now, and Lucien did not know what to make of that, did not know how to feel, for he was grateful to have met her and devastated by the thought that she had lost something so precious as love.

"How's she doing?" Lucien asked her softly. He needed to speak; the silence had settled in his chest, sorrow and joy mingling together in a strange, choking sort of way. At his question Jean smiled, and crossed the room on silent feet, coming to stand beside him.

"Oh, I'd say she's just perfect," Jean answered.

And she was; ten fingers, ten toes, a tuft of blonde hair just like her mother's, a powerful set of lungs. That baby girl was the picture of health, safe and warm in Jean's arms, and if faith had not deserted him years before Lucien might well have sent up a prayer of thanksgiving, in that moment, for that thriving baby girl.

 _You're perfect,_ Lucien thought, looking up at Jean, but wisely he did not speak those words aloud. Instead he cleared his throat, and looked over at Sarah, who was very nearly asleep already.

"We'll need to bathe baby," he told Jean quietly, "and then I'd like to work with Sarah, see if we can get baby to feed. Once we've done that, I can get out from underfoot."

"You aren't underfoot, Doctor," Jean told him warmly. Still she stood beside him, swaying softly in the gentle, graceful, soothing manner of a mother much accustomed to comforting her own babes. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me too, Jean." And he was, was so glad that he had been given this chance to be a part of something beautiful, something simple, to celebrate a life, and not mourn a death. His work had become too much about death, in recent days, murder victims and unexpected heart attacks and his father's death, coloring all of it, reminding him at ever turn why had had come back to Ballarat. Just now there was joy in this room, and relief and love and hope, and he soaked in it down to his bones, felt the peace of that moment begin to seep into his very soul. But only for a moment, for in the next breath Jean was issuing orders; she sent him downstairs, to fetch a tub and enlist the help of whichever girls weren't currently working in order to fill it with warm water. Lucien did as he was bid; the tub he found easily enough, and Lorraine was behind the bar, and eager to help him. As he trooped through the corridors of the Lock and Key he did not encounter a single customer, but he could _hear_ them, behind closed doors, and he could not help but wonder if they had heard _him_ as he went about his work that evening, if the sound of a newborn's wailing had put any of them off their entertainment, or if indeed they'd even noticed it at all. He hoped they did, hoped that at least some of the other souls in that place had marked the new arrival; it was a momentous occasion, and he liked to think the world swayed to stop, if only for a second, in honor of this new life.

Sarah dozed, and Lucien disposed of the afterbirth, and Lorraine and Elizabeth brought pails full of warm water to fill the tub, and all the while Jean stood in the corner of the room with that new life cradled in her arms, swaying, singing, soft and beautiful. As Lucien traipsed in and out his eye gravitated towards her, always, the magnetism of her beauty in this simple domestic scene too strong for him to resist. She should not have been beautiful; he knew what she did for work, what she had once done for work, knew what went on beneath her roof, knew that somewhere along the line she had made the choices that brought her to this place, but when he looked at her he saw only her beatific smile, and the tender way she held that baby, and he thought only how lovely she was, and how grateful he was to share this moment with her.

The moment the tub was full Jean shooed the other girls out of the room, and came to join Lucien where he stood by Sarah's dressing table, the little tub full of warm water waiting on top of it.

"Easy, now," Lucien murmured as Jean began to carefully unwrap the baby. She shot him a single incredulous look, one eyebrow lifted as if challenging him to correct her, and he laughed; of course, she was right, and he should have known better than to caution her. Jean knew exactly what she was doing, and with deft hands she carefully slipped the baby into the warm water. With those hands, delicate and capable, Jean held the baby fast, and Lucien reached around her, their shoulders brushing, as he scooped up a bit of that warm water, and let it sluice off the back of the baby's head.

"She's been here before," Lucien said softly to Jean as they stood together, looking down on that little girl in wonder. The baby's eyes were open, watching them both solemnly, silently. It was a winsome thought, something Mei Lin used to say when she encountered a particularly calm, quiet child.

"Do you think so?" Jean answered, her tone curious, not chiding him for his flight of fancy.

"Well, perhaps not here," Lucien amended. "But see in her eyes? No fear. She knows she's warm and safe."

"She knows she's loved."

There was no doubt about that; Sarah loved her little girl fiercely, had been ecstatic to hold her, moved to tears when she first saw her child's face. And Jean loved them both, mother and baby, would protect them, defend them, cherish them, always, of that Lucien was certain. For his part Lucien was not immune to the love that flowed in and through that place; he could feel it settle on his skin, could feel it filling his lungs. This little girl, with her wide dark eyes, this girl Jean held, she had been brought into the world by Lucien's own two hands. He had been the first to hold her, and he had cared for her and for her mother, and in so doing he had in his own way assumed responsibility for them. They would be linked, now, forever; those four souls, gathered in that room, had brought about a miracle, and that miracle left its mark on all of them.

And yes, if he were telling the truth he would be forced to admit that when he looked at this precious baby girl, when he heard Jean's gentle song, when he felt the warmth of her beside him, he could not help but think of the day his Li was born, could not help but recall that fear, that blinding joy, that depth of love. The echoes of that love still lived within him, though he had not seen his child's face in nearly two decades. The path of his life had led him far from her, far from the wife that he had once loved, but it had led him here, to this moment, to this room, to this beautiful woman, to this beautiful child, and so he did his best to put aside thoughts of grief and loss. It was enough, just for now, to be here, with Jean.


	10. Chapter 10

_6 June 1959_

"How about that, eh?" Matthew said, reclining further into the recesses of the armchair in Lucien's parlor, a glass of Lucien's good whiskey cradled in his hand. "Baby in a brothel. And business didn't stop for a second."

"According to Mrs. Beazley it isn't the first time," Lucien answered, taking a long sip from his own glass.

"No, I don't suppose it is. What is she going to do now? The mother?"

"Jean thinks she'll stay put for a few weeks, and then she'll go interstate. Apparently Mrs. Beazley has contacts in Queensland who might be able to find work for a young lady keen to make a new start."

"Oh, Jean does, does she?" Matthew put a certain emphasis on her name, _Jean,_ and when Lucien looked up he found his old friend frowning at him disapprovingly. Too late Lucien realized what he'd done; he'd spoken of her too familiarly, with too much affection, and Matthew had recognized it at once.

"Well, yes," Lucien answered, somewhat lamely.

"Blake -" There was a undeniable note of warning in his voice, and Lucien cut him off immediately; he didn't fancy being chastised in his own home for the crime of being friends with a woman.

"Really, Matthew, there's nothing untoward-"

"Nothing untoward about a police surgeon turning up in the local brothel several nights a week? Taking calls from the madam at the station? Calling her by her Christian name? You're already on thin ice, Blake. You've been playing it fast and loose since you got here, and you haven't made many friends. I wouldn't be surprised if Bill Hobart is keeping a record of every time he sees you pull out that flask you think I don't know about. You ought to be more careful."

"Or what? Really, Matthew, what exactly is going to happen? What are you so worried about?"

It was not in Lucien's nature to worry about his own reputation, or to spend even a moment considering how his actions might appear to others. It never had been, really; artifice and prestige were Thomas Blake's remit, not Lucien's. Lucien knew that he had done absolutely nothing wrong - legally or morally - and Matthew's fatalism where Jean was concerned left him feeling waspish and defensive. Why should he have to spell it out, defend himself against unfounded accusations? Why wouldn't Matthew just leave him be?

"I don't know, that's what worries me," Matthew answered grimly. "You've insulted Patrick Tyneman more times than any sensible man would-"

"Yes, well, Patrick can go-"

"And you ruined Keith Morrisey's campaign for city council, and you got on the wrong side of those Army blokes on Anzac Day, and -"

"All right, so I've...rubbed a few people the wrong way. Do you really think that my job is in jeopardy, Matthey?"

It was a troubling thought. Yes, there had been more than a few sticky cases in the months since Lucien had arrived in Ballarat - the Anzac Day fiasco having been the worst of all of them, as far as he was concerned - but he had not previously considered, not even for a moment, that he might lose his position with the police.

"You've made enemies with long arms. There's rumblings coming from Melbourne about your suitability for this position. And be honest, how many of your father's patients have moved their business to another surgery since you came home?"

 _A dozen, at least,_ Lucien realized, though he did not give voice to that particular thought. More than a few, but not so many as to undo him - yet. Could Patrick Tyneman, or Keith Morrisey, or Derek bloody Alderton really hate him enough to wage war against him? And if they did, could they really cost him his position as police surgeon, and turn all his patients away? Oh, the Blake family money would not run out for a good many years yet, but without the income from his two careers Lucien would be hard pressed to continue paying the private investigator who was currently searching for Li on the other side of the world. That was the whole reason he had decided to stay in this place; it was comfortable, and the position afforded him the opportunity to invest more fully in the hunt for his missing child. The thought that he could lose it all - his new home, the satisfying work of police surgeon, the chance to find Li - was deeply unsettling. As far as Lucien was concerned he had not done anything to merit such treatment, but then the Lucien Blakes and the Patrick Tynemans of the world rarely saw eye to eye.

"I'm not trying to be difficult," Lucien said slowly. "The girls need medical care. What am I supposed to do? Ignore them? That girl last night, was I just supposed to let her give birth alone because of what she does for a living?"

"I don't disagree with you, Lucien, you know that," Matthew answered heavily. "I'm just asking you to be more careful. No one knew your father was handling the girls' medical care because he was _careful_. You can do the same."

 _Be careful, Lucien._ People had been saying those words to him all his life. Be careful, be quiet, be still, be more refined, be less preposterous. Until now, Lucien had not been careful at all, not where the pub was concerned; he had, more than once, gone round to the Lock and Key after dark to sit and share a cup of tea with Mrs. Beazley. He had laughed with her, smiled at her, helped her to clean, to unload her deliveries, had tried, in his own way, to become her friend. He had visited the pub more often than was wise, and had so far only seen to one patient, one patient who would soon be moving on. The course of wisdom, he knew, would be to only visit the Lock and Key during daylight hours, only when it was a matter of the girls' health, and never again venture there for the sole purpose of seeing Mrs. Beazley.

It would have been wise, but Lucien knew in his heart he would not be able to stay away. Jean was lovely, utterly lovely, kind and compassionate, possessed of a clever wit that intrigued him. And there was so much he still wanted to know about her, so many questions he'd yet to find the answer to. What had become of her husband? How had she come to own the Lock and Key, and what kept her in that business? What secrets did she carry, what memories from her own days as _one of the girls_?

And _why,_ why did looking at her make his heart race? Why did the sound of her voice calm his chaotic thoughts? Why was it that every time he had a question, it was Jean he wanted to bring it to, Jean whose quiet wisdom he longed for? Those nights he had gone to the pub, sat beside her at that corner booth sipping tea out of her pretty painted cups, those nights had been a balm to his weary soul. Each time he had sought her out when the dark and the quiet stillness of his own home grew too much to bear, and each time she had been there, waiting for him, beautiful and gentle, a friend he could speak to openly, earnestly, a heart that seemed to understand his own.

As he sat there with Matthew, brooding on the subject of his future, and his reputation, and the cruel hand of fate, he thought of her, this woman who had landed in the midst of his life with all the force of a lightning strike. Ballarat had been boring, and cold, before he met her. There had been little of interest to him, only the need to find his daughter keeping him in place. But now, now there was Jean. He thought of Jean, as she had been the night before, thought of the capable, practical way she had assisted in the baby's birth, thought of how beautiful she had looked, how warm, how serene she had been, with that child in her arms. She had been a wife, once, had been a mother, once, had known love and loss, had not always existed within the cold world of the brothel. Seeing her with the baby had been like catching a glimpse of another woman entirely, the woman she had been _before,_ and Lucien was desperate to see her again.

Was it so wrong, he wondered, that he should want to know her, that he should want to spend time with her? She was a fascinating sort of woman, and even Matthew seemed to respect her. Was it so wrong that he should think her beautiful? It was no more than a thought, nothing he intended to act on, the knowledge of her beauty with him always but not compelling him to catastrophe. It was not her beauty that sent him across town to sit beside her - or at least not only that. _You couldn't afford me,_ she'd told him once, and how that thought had festered, spreading like a virus through the depths of his mind. What would it cost him, to have her? His job, his reputation, his belief in his own morality? Yes, she was beautiful, and _yes_ sometimes when they talked his gaze would drift to her soft lips, her delicate hands, and _yes_ sometimes she would smile at him and his heart would give a great leap in his chest. But _no,_ he did not want to pay her for a tumble, _no_ he did not want to roll her beneath him knowing she was only there because of the money he had given her, _no,_ he did not want to wonder if her smiles were genuine, or only given in exchange for payment. But he _could,_ if ever that wanting changed, for everything in the Lock and Key, even its inestimable madam, had its price. Whether that was a price he was willing to pay he did not yet know.

He did not yet know if one night the lonesomeness would grow too heavy to bear, did not know if one day her beauty would drive him to madness, did not know if one day, one day soon perhaps, curiosity would get the better of him. There was a delicious sort of tension in his chest when he was with her, a sense of temptation hanging in the air. There was more to discover about her, more she could show him, but a handful of shillings would not be sufficient to buy him answers to those questions. Sitting next to her in the warm glow of the pub the potential - the _could be -_ the sense that he need only speak the words, and change everything between them for good, nearly intoxicated him. He was playing with fire, and he knew it, but Lucien Blake had lived his whole life with one hand held over the flame, testing his own limits.

So far he had restrained himself. So far he had not crossed the line, no matter how tempted he might have been. No doubt Matthew did not trust him to maintain decorum for much longer. Truth be told, Lucien didn't entirely trust himself.

"You're too quiet," Matthew grumbled. "It's making me nervous."

"I will try to be more careful," Lucien answered. It was a lie, but he felt he owed Matthew that much. He could _try,_ could try to visit her less in the evenings, could try to restrain himself a bit more, could try to avoid the tantalizing question of _what if_ that swirled through his mind when she was near. He could _try,_ but he made no guarantees as to the potential success of such a venture.

"Please," Matthew said, his expression somewhat pained. "Mrs. Beazley's a good woman, you and I both know that, but it's dangerous to get too close to someone like her."

It _was_ dangerous, Lucien understood that very well, but he had always had a passion for dangerous pursuits.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: according to the internet, £1 in 1960 is worth about £23 now. Just...for reference. In case y'all wanna do some math.

_15 June 1959_

The Lock and Key kept regular hours, despite the clandestine nature of the work the girls carried on inside. Jean had always been a firm believer in routine, and she ran her business the same way she had run her house, once. The doors opened to customers at 5:00 p.m. each evening, and remained open until just past midnight. Later, on Fridays and Saturdays; those were the busiest nights of the week, after all, and the girls earned more in one weekend than they'd earn in a week of Mondays. Midday appointments could be made, if the customers desired, but they cost extra and had to be arranged in advance. That suited some of the gentlemen just fine; Lorraine had a standing appointment with a city councilor every Tuesday at noon, and he was hardly the only man who preferred the relative anonymity of slipping up the back stairs in daylight to walking into the dining room of an evening. The pub was closed on Sundays; even working girls deserved a day of rest, Jean thought.

Every day followed a strict routine. Monday mornings were for the books and accounting, Tuesdays were for general housekeeping - Jean always kept her rooms neat and tidy - Wednesdays were for inventory, Thursdays were for laundry, Fridays were for deliveries. The girls slept late in the mornings, and Jean did her best not to rouse them. She'd make an early lunch for anyone who was up and about, and then the lads who worked in the kitchen would come shuffling in, and Jean would organize them in the afternoons, would set them to baking bread and pies, start the stew or the roast or whatever else she decided they ought to serve at dinner. The customers didn't always want to eat, but Jean made sure there was food just the same, and any extras were sent to the orphanage the next day; Jean had never approved of waste. The girls would get first taste of the evening's menu just before the doors opened, and then the work would begin, and Jean would settle herself into her corner booth, and keep an eye on all her little birds, her hands never idle, taking in everything that happened in that place, watchful, always, for signs of trouble. When closing time came she'd send Danny or one of the other young men who sometimes worked security for her in exchange for extra pay upstairs to roust the stragglers while she cleared the dining room herself. And then, when the kitchen boys had cleaned up and slipped out into the night, when the girls were all sleeping soundly, when the doors were locked and there was no one else around, Jean would drift through the dining room, wiping down the tables, sweeping and mopping the floors, rinsing out the whiskey glasses and lining them all back up. There was a pattern to it, a rhythm, and Jean took comfort in knowing what came next.

Only tonight was different, because _he_ was here. That in and of itself was not so terribly unusual; he came by most nights. He'd come every afternoon in the week since Sarah'd had her little one, checking in on mother and baby, making sure that both were well. Most evenings he returned, always making his way towards her table, always waiting to be invited, always sharing a cup of tea. He kept his hands to himself and did not crowd her, did not swallow glass after glass of whiskey until he was stinking and drunk. He was polite, and kind, and he passed her a shilling every time she raised an eyebrow at him, content, it seemed, with the state of affairs between them.

But tonight, this time, he had not left after one cup of tea. He'd turned up later than usual, his hands shaking, his tie nowhere to be found, and when he sat himself down beside her Jean had known, somehow, that things were different tonight. There was a tension in him, his shoulders tight, his gaze restless, his questions infrequent and lacking his usual enthusiasm. Perhaps something was troubling him; perhaps that's why he was still here, as the clock ticked ever closer to midnight and the already paltry Monday evening crowd thinned even more. No doubt he would have left, if she told him to, but though his obvious distress concerned Jean a very great deal she could not quite bring herself to cast him out. It was clear he needed a listening ear, some sort of comfort, and Jean wanted, very much, to be the one to give it to him.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, shattering the silence that had fallen between them. It was nearly midnight, and the kitchen boys had already cleaned up and gone home, and Elizabeth was half asleep behind the bar, no customers asking for her attention this evening. The girls took turns pouring the drinks; if a customer wanted the barmaid, and the barmaid was willing, she'd flag down one of her compatriots and they'd switch places. Business had been slow, though, and Elizabeth had been stuck drawing pints of beer all night. She wasn't paying Jean and Doctor Blake any mind, and she was too far away to hear their conversation anyway. They had more privacy in this moment than they'd ever had before, and Jean felt the weight of their isolation settle on her shoulders, thick and full of potential.

The doctor hummed, not looking at her, and so Jean pressed him.

"Something is obviously bothering you," she pointed out. "And I get the feeling you didn't come here to sit in silence."

He laughed. "No, you're quite right, Mrs. Beazley. I'm afraid I've had...a difficult week."

"Would this have anything to do with that young man who was set to be executed?"

Jean did keep up with the news, after all, and Danny had been up in arms about it all week. The young man in question had killed a police officer, and Doctor Blake's face had been splashed all over the papers, accompanied by several rather direct quotes from the man himself protesting the death penalty. It was not a particularly popular view, Jean knew, especially not among the law enforcement officers with whom he served, and especially not in this case, given the specifics of the crime.

"He didn't do it," Doctor Blake told her, taking a long sip of his now tepid tea. "The truth came out today. His brother killed that young police officer, in a fight over a girl. But they have another brother, a priest, and he convinced them to lie. The brother who actually committed the crime, he has a wife and children. They decided between them that it would be best if he went free, given his obligations."

Jean hardly knew what to say to that. She supposed the Doctor had been right, in his own way, to urge the powers that be not to kill the McBride boy; they had very nearly executed him for a crime he didn't commit. But what would become of his family now that the truth was out? Surely he would face punishment for perjury, among other things, and what about the brother who _had_ murdered the policeman? Would he take his brother's place in line for execution, would his family now suffer forever without their husband, their father to provide for them?

"By all accounts, it appears the murder was an accident, he was only defending his brother. I don't think they'll execute him, not now, but he will go to prison. And who knows what will become of his wife and children."

"Do you regret it?" Jean asked him slowly. "Finding the truth?"

"I want to say no," Doctor Blake answered heavily. "We very nearly killed the wrong man, and I'm glad we managed to save his life. But I think about those children, and what I've taken from them...well. Children deserve to be with their parents, don't they? To be loved, and protected? This is why I find the death penalty unconscionable, there are too many questions, and I don't believe we have the right to mete out that kind of punishment, not when we could be killing innocent men. But I don't think I've changed anyone's mind on the subject. If anything I think I've made a few new enemies for myself. Your nephew barely spoke to me all week."

"Danny's young," Jean told him gently. "He wants to believe that the world is black and white, us and them. It isn't that simple, but he hasn't quite learned that lesson yet."

"You have though, haven't you, Jean?"

It was Jean's turn to hum noncommittally. Yes, she had learned that lesson long ago. When she was young, the same age as Danny was now, she had believed without question in the edicts of her church, had thought she understood the difference between right and wrong. Time and experience had taught her otherwise.

"Mrs. Beazley?" Elizabeth called out from behind the bar, interrupting their quiet conversation. "It's midnight. Can I-"

"Go on up to bed," Jean told her, already rising from the booth. "I'll send Allen to do a doorknock."

"G'night, Mrs. Beazley," Elizabeth answered, already making her way towards the stairs. Allen, the strapping young lad who'd been standing by the door all evening, had heard her words and was already hot on Elizabeth's heels; he'd go round to all the rooms and make sure there were no stragglers upstairs before going off in search of his own bed. Jean didn't think there were any men left in the pub, but she always liked to be sure. She didn't approve of surprises.

Closing time meant clean up; Elizabeth had already washed and stacked the glasses and wiped down the bar, and so Jean decided she would begin with the tables, and work her way out from there. She went to the bar and fetched a clean rag, wetting it in the sink, and for a moment she almost forgot that Doctor Blake was still there. Almost, until he spoke, and she realized he was leaning up against the bar, looking at her.

"Can I help, Mrs. Beazley?"

She should have told him _no,_ and sent him on his way. It was late, the pub was closed - or would be, as soon as Allen came back downstairs and Jean locked the door behind him - and Doctor Blake was a handsome, troubled man who'd been spending far too much time by her side over the last few weeks. She should have thrown him out, but she _couldn't;_ he looked so lonely, and so sad, and Jean didn't want to be without him, not yet.

"Here," she said, handing him the rag. "Take this, and go and wipe down the booths."

"Thank you," he answered. And wasn't that strange, she thought, that he should thank her for putting him to work. But in a way she supposed she understood why he'd said it; she hadn't sent him away, hadn't pushed him out into the loneliness of the night, had instead heeded his request and given him an excuse to linger. Truth be told, she was grateful for it, too.

The work went much faster, with an extra pair of hands. Jean wiped down the tables while the Doctor took the booths. Allen came down the stairs dragging a bearded man by his ear, and bid Jean a cheerful goodnight. She locked the door behind him, and then with Doctor Blake's help she began to stack the chairs up onto the tables, the better to sweep beneath them.

"I'm afraid I'm not much good with a broom, Mrs. Beazley," the Doctor told her as the last chair settled on the table. "Perhaps there's something else I could do?"

And so Jean sent him into the kitchen, to carry the rubbish outside while she swept. It was nice, she thought, having someone to help; ordinarily she was alone with the wireless. The wireless was still playing tonight, of course, but Doctor Blake's presence colored everything, now, made the evening somehow brighter, more cheerful.

She shouldn't want him around, she knew. He was a prominent member of the community, whether he wanted to be or not, and he had not once spent an hour with any of the girls. A man who was not a customer but _did_ hobnob with the police presented a threat to her business, and she knew it. The other important men who visited the pub were customers, and they would keep their silence about the truth of her business for the sake of their own reputations. Doctor Blake did not share that particular concern, was not a member of that dubious brotherhood, and one wrong word from him could cripple her business, and threaten her freedom. And Jean knew, as all the girls did, that when one man began to show undue interest in one particular girl it could only lead to trouble; lust and love were often confused in the hearts of men, and a man in love with a girl who felt nothing at all for him was a dangerous one. Sometimes they grew violent or vindictive, when they realized they could not have what they wanted most, when they realized they must share their girl with anyone else who paid, when they discovered they were not _special_ as they so very much wanted to be. Doctor Blake kept seeking her out, and while Jean did not yet know _why_ she feared what would happen, when the truth of his motives finally came to light.

Only, he didn't seem to be interested in sex - or not only in that; Jean wasn't blind. She saw the way he looked at her, and sometimes she could almost hear his thoughts. He was a handsome man, a kind man, a strong man, and he had every right to ask for her, if he wanted. He hadn't, yet, but she could not help but wonder if he would, or when, and what she might say to him then. _You can always say no,_ that was rule number one. But would she say _no,_ if he asked? Would she want to? It was entirely possible he didn't want her at all, not in that way; he had so far only seemed to come to her for conversation. Jean did not _know_ what it was he wanted, and that uncertainty was beginning to trouble her.

He came back in as she finished sweeping, but he paused by the bar, a strange expression flickering on his face. The wireless was still playing, a soft, sad song that Jean rather liked, and she swayed to a stop, her hands clutching her broom, watching him while that song wafted through the air around them.

"I quite like that," Doctor Blake said softly, gesturing towards the wireless. When Jean didn't answer he began to walk towards her, very slowly, and she realized at once what he was about to ask her. And yet she did not stop him, though he gave her every chance to do so; she simply stood, holding her breath and her broom, and waited.

"Dance with me, Jean," the doctor said, taking the broom from her hand and propping it up against the bar. "Life's too short not to."

She should have said _no._ She should have asked him to leave, or told him a dance would cost him a fiver. The girls in the Lock and Key never danced for free. But he was warm, and close, and his hand was gentle when he reached for her, and his eyes were so very blue, and Jean found she could not resist. She took the hand he offered, and let him pull her close, let his free hand settle on the small of her back as they began to sway together.

When was the last time she danced? Jean could hardly remember. The last time she danced with a man for free, with a man she cared for, _that_ she remembered well for it had been Christopher, in the kitchen of their farmhouse a lifetime ago, before the fight that sent him far from her side, never to return. They'd danced all the time; they'd had no money, and sometimes very little food, and Jean had sewn all their clothes from whatever scraps she could find, but they had been happy, and in love, and they had _danced_. In this moment, with Lucien's arms around her, the comforting smell of sandalwood and antiseptic hanging faintly in the air around him, his breath warm against her cheek, she felt her heart begin to beat in her chest again, for the first time since Christopher had died.

He was a very capable dancer, Lucien Blake. He held her close, close enough for her to feel his chest brush against her own each time they breathed, though not so close as to be considered improper. His hands were warm and strong, but he touched her gently, tenderly, reverently, as he spun them deftly through the maze of empty tables there in the dim lights of the pub. It was very late, and all the world was asleep save for the pair of them, and he was so _handsome,_ and he had been so kind, and…

Love was not a word that existed for Jean, any more. Love was not safe, not in this business. The love of men hurt, and it had been far too long since any man had been worth what it would cost her to love. She loved her girls, of course, loved them like her own children, but romantic love was a thing of the past. She could not think about love, not even in this moment when she was surrounded by him, when she felt herself in danger of falling. Yes, he was kind, and clever, yes he made her laugh, yes he was thoughtful, _yes,_ there was something broken about him that called to Jean's own heart, but it could not be _love_ that she felt for him. Love would be her undoing. She needed to put a stop to it, she knew she did, but just for now, just for these precious few moments, she let herself go, and rested her head on his shoulder while they danced, drinking in the comforting warmth of him.

But that song, like all good things, drew to an end. Lucien did not push his luck; he released her, and when she looked up at him he bowed his head, and brushed a chaste kiss against her cheek.

"You dance beautifully, Jean," he told her as he stepped away, smiling at her softly. _Oh,_ that smile; it was more dangerous than any knife. "Where did a girl like you learn to dance like that?"

All the warmth that had gathered in Jean's chest, all the fond feeling that he had inspired in her, withered in an instant. She straightened her shoulders, her heart racing in anger, now, rather than affection.

"A girl like me?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow at him incredulously. _Is that what he thinks of me?_ She wondered as she looked at him. _Just another girl? Has he only been kind to me because he thinks he can get something for free if he's nice enough?_

"Jean," he said, looking suddenly aghast, "I didn't mean-"

"What are you doing here, Doctor Blake?" she asked him sharply. "Really, why do you keep coming back? You know the rules. If you want something, you pay for it, same as anyone else. Or do you not want to pay, is that it?" She was on a roll, now, the ire rising in her heart, quickly spinning out of control.

"Jean, I would never-"

"You would never what? Never stoop so low? You've been coming round here for weeks, and don't think I don't know what you're thinking when you look at me. You think you could offer me more than this, don't you? You think you could save me from this life? You're hardly the first man to get that idea in his head, Doctor Blake, don't fool yourself about that. I don't need saving."

There was one reason Jean had kept the Lock and Key open when it fell into her possession, one reason she had not sold it and started a new life somewhere else. Running this business, not working the floor but controlling the purse strings, had offered the one thing she could not find anywhere else. The Lock and Key meant freedom, for her, meant independence, meant deciding the course of her own life and answering to no one. To step away from it would be to subjugate herself to someone else - to an employer, a landlord, a _man -_ and after everything Jean had seen, everything she had suffered, her freedom was the one thing she could not stand to lose. Perhaps Doctor Blake, with his big house and his fine suits and his money and his education, thought he could offer her something better, but he could not offer her _freedom,_ and she would not let him take it from her, not for anything.

"What if I don't want to save you?" he asked quietly, and the tension between them shifted, tightened, became something else entirely. The breath froze in Jean's lungs as she looked at him, his blue eyes burning into her. "What if I want to buy you instead?"

"I told you-"

"I couldn't afford you, yes. I'm not so sure about that. Name your price, Jean."

He was deadly serious, she could see that in his gaze. He was not crowding her, not reaching for her; he was giving her the choice, giving her the chance to make this decision for both of them. _You can always say no._

"For an hour?" she asked. "Full service?"

The usual questions came tumbling from her lips, buying her a moment to think. She could name a price so outrageous he'd never pay it, and win this battle of wills between them. Or she could name a price that was high, but not out of the question, and then...was she really considering this? Considering taking him to bed? What would become of them if she did? Jean had started to look forward to their evening chats, to spending time in quiet conversation with him. He provided exemplary care to her girls, and was always the very picture of courtesy. Would that change, if she let him become a customer?

But _oh,_ what might it be like, to let him roll her beneath him, to feel those sleek muscles under her hands, to tumble with a man she cared for, for the first time in nearly two decades? Would he treat her gently, would he consume her utterly, would he come back for more? And did it matter, really? Everything was for sale, in the Lock and Key, that was just the way things worked, and Jean wasn't sure she could pass up the opportunity to see just how much Doctor Blake was willing to pay for her.

"Yes," he said in answer to her question. The ticking of the clock, usually so faint, sounded loud in her ears. The moment had come when she must make a choice, for both of them. _What do you want, Jean?_ She asked herself as she looked at him. _Truly, what do you want?_

"One hundred pounds."

The gauntlet had been thrown; once the words were spoken she knew she could not take them back. It was an extraordinary price, for one hour's pleasure. Not beyond the reach of a truly wealthy man, perhaps, but enough to make him pause, if only for a moment. It was an offer designed to be declined, but not so outrageous as to be utterly out of the question. Whether Doctor Blake had such means Jean wasn't sure, but -

"Done," he said, holding out his hand as if asking her to shake.

_You can always say no. if you want to._

His gaze was dark, and hungry, but his hand was steady. He was sure, then, about the offer that had been made. He was willing, then, to pay her such a sum, just to spend an hour in her bed. He was not backing away from her, was not protesting that he was too good - or that _she_ was too good - to make such an arrangement. He was meeting her on her own ground, according to her own terms.

_You can always say no._

"Done," she agreed, and then she shook his hand.


	12. Chapter 12

_16 June 1959_

_Not tonight,_ she'd told him once their deal was struck. _No customers after hours, except by prior arrangement._ Apparently despite the friendship they'd been slowly cultivating between themselves over the last few weeks Lucien did not merit special treatment; he'd have to wait his turn like everyone else.

 _When, then?_ He'd asked, adrenaline and fear making his heart race.

 _Tomorrow,_ she'd said. _At 5:00, when we open. There's less chance someone will see you._

 _Worried about my reputation?_ He'd asked her wryly.

 _No,_ she'd answered, shaking her head. _Mine. I've been off the market a long time, Doctor Blake. I don't want word of this to get around._

It was tomorrow, now, and just gone 3:00. Lucien had asked Mrs. Penny to reschedule all of his afternoon appointments; his hands were trembling, and his thoughts were too chaotic for him to trust himself with a patient. The police had wrapped up the McBride case, and they had no need of him, and he had a feeling he wouldn't be welcome at the police station just now, anyway. It was probably for the best; he wasn't sure that he'd be able to hold his tongue, if he found himself face-to-face with Matthew Lawson. Matthew who had warned him to be careful with Mrs. Beazley, to keep his dealings at the Lock and Key secret, to be _careful_ only now Lucien had gone and arranged an assignation with the madam herself, at a staggering price. One hundred pounds, for an hour alone with her; he would have paid double that, if she'd asked it of him, and so he supposed he ought to be grateful for small mercies, but Matthew Lawson would not have agreed. Matthew would have called it madness, and he would have been right.

The decision had been made in haste, and Lucien knew it was a foolish one, a reckless one, but he could not bring himself to regret it. He wanted her, fiercely, wanted her hands, her lips, the slide of her hips under his hands, but it was not only her body he craved, was not only lust that had him reaching for his wallet. She'd stood in front of him the night before, beautiful, strong, passionate, and as she spoke he realized she was right. There was a piece of his heart that wanted to save her, to bring her out of the shadows, a piece of him that looked at her and lamented, thinking she was too good for the hand life had dealt her. But she'd read him like a book, and stood before him defiant, and he'd realized the error of his ways. Mrs. Beazley was quite capable of saving herself, he could see that now; it was not a cruel turn of fate that kept her in the Lock and Key, but her own choices. And if this was the life she chose, if this was the only way he could have her, he would submit to her terms.

He'd been teetering on the edge of this proposition from the moment he met her, and he knew it. Had been drifting closer and closer to the brink, wanting and yet holding himself back, tasting temptation but not reaching for it, not yet. The dance they'd shared in the empty pub was enough to tip him over the edge; she was beautiful, and warm, and soft, and the feeling of her body against him, closer to her in that moment than he had been to any woman for years, had lit a fire deep in his belly. He _wanted_ her, but she was not a nurse or a teacher, not a woman he would have to court carefully, chastely, wooing her slowly with dinners and drinks and restraining himself for the sake of propriety. She was not his to pursue in the way another woman might have been; there was only one path to spending time with her, only one way to touch her, and she had made the ground rules very clear.

Lucien sighed and abandoned his futile attempts at reviewing patient notes, gathering up his glass of whiskey and leaving behind the surgery, making his way towards his bedroom instead. The clock was ticking, the appointed hour drawing ever closer, and anxiety had begun to bubble up somewhere deep inside him. It was not that he doubted his capabilities, exactly; he was quite sure that he could make a fine showing, when it came right down to it. What worried him, what set his hands to shaking, was the thought that this was _Jean._ She was not a stranger, accepting payment and closing her eyes and waiting for him to take his own pleasure. She was a woman he cared for, a woman he respected, a woman he believed was worthy of devotion, and adoration, a woman he very much wanted to _like_ him. Whatever happened between them over the course of their hour together he wanted to satisfy her, did not want her to think less of him than she had done before.

Everything between them was about to change, he knew. He was not a fool, or a cad; this was not to be some soulless transaction. He intended to share himself with her, and take from her whatever she was willing to give, and he knew that after such an experience they would not ever look at one another the same way again. Would she care for him more, if he treated her gently? Would she smile more often, offer him conversation without need of payment, indulge him because she was enjoying herself, too? Or had he now relegated himself to the rank of _customer,_ no different, no more important than any other man she'd had before, no longer a confidant or a friend but simply another one of _them?_ Lucien was afraid he'd put his foot right in it, but there was no going back now; to renege on their bargain would be a blow to her pride, and it would demolish any trust or goodwill between them. And besides, he wanted her too badly to throw this chance away. He wanted her, her soft skin beneath his lips, her gentle sighs, the rocking of her hips, wanted to see her, feel her, touch her, hold her, wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, meaning every word, wanted to savor every second he could spend alone with her, far from the prying eyes of the pub. He wanted _her,_ and soon, very soon, he would have her.

 _But first,_ he thought, _a bath, and a trim for my beard, and a fresh suit._ It would not do, he thought, to turn up at her door disheveled and stinking of whiskey; she deserved better from him than that, and he meant to give her the best he possibly could.

* * *

"Are you sure about this, Mrs. Beazley?" Maureen asked her for perhaps the third time that afternoon. They were sitting together in Jean's little parlor, cups of tea in their hands. It had just gone 4:00, and Jean was rapidly running out of time - not that it mattered, really. The bargain had been made, and she would see her end of it through.

"I'm sure," she answered firmly.

The upstairs of the Lock and Key was a veritable warren of bedrooms, and each girl had her own, though they shared a bathroom and a toilet. The owner's suite was Jean's domain; one bedroom, one small parlor, and a private bathroom. It was more than she'd ever had anywhere else, a space entirely her own, and it had been her home for the last ten years. She was comfortable here, in these rooms she had furnished and decorated to her own taste, and no man had ever set foot inside them. Until now.

That was what made Maureen so uneasy, Jean knew. The madam existed in a world unto herself, the ultimate authority over both her employees and her customers. She could not be had; she was untouchable, sacrosanct, and there was power in her inviolability. To change the terms of her status was to risk everything, but an offer had been made and it could not be refused. Not only because it was a great deal of money - and would be a boon to her business, would secure her future and continued prosperity quite neatly - but because she _wanted_ it too badly. She wanted _him,_ those strong arms, those broad shoulders, wanted to know how it would feel to let him roll her beneath him. And she wanted to know why he seemed so fixated on her, wanted to learn all she could about him, wanted to know what would happen next, should they take this step together. It was curiosity, as much as pride, that compelled her.

And so she was sitting here, discussing her plans with Maureen, waiting for him. She'd bathed and styled her hair just so; it fell soft and loose around her face, for while she had taken the time to curl it she had not bothered with pins. They'd only get in the way. She had dug through the back of her wardrobe and discovered a black satin nightdress that would suit her purposes well; it fell to just below her knee, showing off the smooth length of her pale calves, and the décolletage was lace, and sheer, accenting the curve of her breast just so. For the sake of her meeting with Maureen she had wrapped herself in her favorite pink chenille robe, and she sat in her favorite armchair, her legs tucked up underneath her, both her hands wrapped around her teacup.

"It's just that -"

"I know, Maureen. But the Doctor has made a generous offer. He'll come early, and he'll leave by the back stairs. No one has to know he was here."

"I'll know," Maureen grumbled with a haughty toss of her auburn curls. "Tell me the truth, would you have even considered it if he wasn't handsome?"

"That isn't why I agreed to this, and I think you know that."

No, Jean had not accepted him only because he was handsome. Handsome men could be dangerous, in their own way, and tended in Jean's experience to have an over-inflated sense of their own prowess in the bedroom. If he had only been handsome, she would have laughed in his face. Jean had accepted him because he was kind, and brilliant, because he was passionate, because he was possessed of a good heart. Somehow, though she had only known him such a short while, Jean knew that she would be safe in his hands. She did not know, yet, what might pass between them once he stepped into her room, did not know how things might change once they were finished, but knew he would not hurt her, and she wanted to find out just how things might go between them. She wanted to know how his hands would feel, tight against her hips, wanted to know what quiet words he might whisper in her ear. She wanted to know what it was he wanted from her, whether a tumble alone would be enough to satisfy him or if it was some greater need that drew him to her.

It was not only lust, she thought. It was not only a case of a lonesome man looking for relief; he could have had his pick of the girls, young and beautiful, and far less costly than she. But it was Jean he had pursued, single-mindedly, and he had not balked at her terms. He had met her on her own ground, and now…

 _Now we shall see what we shall see_ , she thought.

Truth be told she did feel a certain anxiety. It had been over a decade since last she'd been to bed with a man, and far longer since she'd been with a man she cared for. Things were different this time, and she knew it; _he_ was different. What would he expect from her? Ordinarily the customers did not expect much at all; they were hungry for relief, and would purchase it according to the manner that suited them best, and they gave no thought to the women who provided it. Doctor Blake wouldn't be like that, she thought; he wasn't just looking for a warm body to hold. He wanted _her_ , but how, and to what end?

She wanted him to be more than satisfied, by the time that they were through. She wanted him to leave her bed believing she'd been worth every penny he'd paid for her. She wanted…

She wanted to _feel_ something, when he held her. She didn't want to watch the sand slipping through the old hourglass and count the seconds; she wanted to lose herself in a feeling only vaguely remembered, now. She wanted the sighs, the gasps, the slide of sweat-slicked skin intoxicating and not repugnant, the smell of sandalwood and not stale beer. She wanted her heart to race, wanted to _feel..._ she wanted to feel _him_ , and in the feeling of it she wanted to find her own heart again. Her heart, so long ignored, longed for the freedom her mind had discovered. Would he give it to her? Had he made his offer desperate to hold her, knowing it was the only way, or had he done it because he realized he could, and thought it no more than an exciting way to pass the time?

There were so many questions, and she knew she would not find her answers until he came to her, and they settled things between them at last. There was nothing for it, now, except to see their bargain through to its conclusion. And then... _we'll worry about the rest when it comes,_ she thought.

"I can stay the whole night," Maureen said then. "You don't have to come downstairs, after. If you don't want to."

It was a kind offer. Jean had asked Maureen to keep an eye on the dining room for the hour she was occupied, had intended to journey downstairs after Doctor Blake left to take up her usual post in her corner booth, to sit with her knitting and her tea until closing time. Now that Maureen had raised the issue, however, she began to reconsider. Did she really want to do such a thing, to leave behind her bed that smelled of him and face the knowing smiles of her girls, after? To risk his having been caught out in leaving, and the customers leering at her?

"Let's see how it goes," she answered. "I might like to have an early night. And thank you," she added, reaching out to pat Maureen's knee. "For keeping an eye on things for me."

"Oh, I'd do anything for you, Mrs. Beazley." The words were said flippantly, but Jean knew them to be true, and so she only smiled, and took another sip of her tea.


	13. Chapter 13

_16 June 1959_

One of the girls - Elizabeth, he thought, though he couldn't be sure - met him in the small carpark behind the pub just before five, and led him up the back stairs. She did not tease him, had not said anything to him beyond a quiet _g'day, Doctor Blake,_ but there was a knowing smile dancing around the corner of her lips. Ordinarily Lucien would have made some attempt at small talk with her, knowing that as he had taken on the role of the girls' GP he would at some point be called to offer medical assistance for her, but under the circumstances he could not think of a single clever thing to say. Elizabeth knew, as no doubt they all did by now, that Doctor Blake had come to sleep with Mrs. Beazley, and would pay handsomely for it in the bargain, and he was too nervous about the prospect of that assignation to endure any teasing from her, however good-natured it might have been.

"This is the one," she told him, stopping outside one bedroom door that looked much the same as any other. She knocked on it once.

"Good luck," she said to him, grinning, and then she departed, and then the door was opening, and then -

And then the breath caught in his throat, and he lost all ability to move. Jean was standing there, beautiful, brilliant Jean, but she looked so very different that her appearance alone was enough to bowl him over. Her hair fell soft and loose around her lovely face, and her grey eyes sparkled at him as he gawped at her. In place of her usual stiff skirts and modest blouses she wore a short black robe, belted at the waist, that left a remarkable swath of her pale chest and elegant neck bare for his appreciation. And her legs; he had admired the fine shape of her legs the first time he had seen them, but he had never before seen quite this much of them, and certainly not this much of her smooth skin, not encased in stockings but bare and begging for the touch of his hand.

Lucien felt suddenly rather foolish, standing there in his best grey suit with his hat in his hands. There was no denying what was coming next, what he meant to do, why Jean had opened her door to him dressed this way, but he had never before approached a woman he cared for in such a deliberate, almost clinical manner, and though he wanted, very much, to woo her, to seduce her, to touch her and bring her joy with that touch, he realized then that he had no earthly idea where to start.

"Come in, then," she told him, smiling; perhaps she meant to sound bold, or enticing, but there was just enough uncertainty in the way she ducked her gaze to make him think that perhaps he was not the only one anxious about what was to come. Jean had stepped aside, held out her arm in a gesture of welcome, and so he stepped over the threshold, and into her domain.

The door opened onto a small parlor. That surprised him; he had expected to see a bedroom, but there was a door on the far wall standing open, and he could just catch a glimpse of the bed behind it. Perhaps, he thought, as lady of the house she merited her own suite, rather than just a bedroom. The suite was situated in a corner of the pub, and as such the parlor boasted several wide windows - though the cheery yellow curtains had been drawn against the early evening sunlight. There was a fireplace, cold now though likely that would soon change with the oncoming winter. A sofa and several comfortable-looking armchairs were gathered in an amicable grouping around a low coffee table, and there were paintings of flowers on the pale blue painted walls. The room was cozy, and gently feminine, and he felt himself a trespasser there.

"This way," she told him gently. She started to walk away from him, but then seemed to catch herself. She hesitated, just for an instant, and then she smiled at him, and reached out to take his hat out of his hands. As he watched, bemused, she tossed it carelessly onto the sofa, and then she took his hand, and he trembled as if he'd been struck by lightning, shaken down to his very core.

Everything felt very new, to Lucien. This place, this woman, this want, this means of achieving satisfaction so very foreign to him in every way, but for the first time he let himself consider, really acknowledge, that however strange it might seem to him Jean knew exactly what she was doing. She knew the steps of this dance, had been trained - whether through experience alone or with the aid of careful coaching - to make a man feel comfortable, at ease with her. Had she taken his hand because she wanted to, or because it seemed the fastest, easiest way to initiate contact between them? Did it matter?

 _Yes,_ he thought, but she had laced their fingers together, and her hand was small and warm and delicate, and the sway of her hips as she led him across the parlor and into her bedroom was enchanting.

The bedroom, too, was not at all what he had expected. He'd been in Sarah's room, and it had been clean, and cheerful, but rather lacking in character. Not so for Jean's room; this room was bigger, for one, and for another three of the walls were painted in pale pink, and the fourth was covered in bright wallpaper, golden vines creeping from floor to ceiling in a charming design. There was a dressing table and a mirror, a little bench in front of it, jars of cosmetics and pots of creams and a jewelry box lying neatly atop it. There was a small bookshelf, stacked with volumes, and there were photographs in wooden frames on top of it, though he was too far away to make out the faces in them. And there was a tall wooden wardrobe, and two bedside tables, and all the furniture matched, even the bed -

He took a very deep breath. The bed was big and comfortable-looking, and the coverlet was white, patterned with pale pink flowers. This room, this space, was overwhelmingly _hers_ ; this was where she slept, where she dreamed, where she _lived,_ a whole life he knew he so very little about, her story complete and yet utterly unknown to him. As he stared around the room Jean let go of his hand, and quietly closed the door.

"Having second thoughts?" she asked him in a soft voice, stepping once more close to him, close enough to touch him, though this time she kept her hands to herself.

There was no accusation in the question; if anything, he thought she sounded regretful, and so he sought to correct her at once.

"No," he said. "No. I just…" a nervous little laugh escaped him. "Do I...should I...pay now, or?"

It had seemed as good a place as any to start, though Jean frowned at him when he asked his question, and he could have kicked himself, in that moment, for offending her before they'd even begun.

"Yes," she said, holding out her hand.

That frown; would she _not_ have asked for payment upfront, if he hadn't offered? Was that not the way of it?

 _You've gotten yourself into a right old mess,_ he thought glumly, but he dutifully reached for his wallet, and pulled out a crisp stack of bills, fresh from the bank. The nice young lady who'd helped him earlier in the day had been surprised at the size of his request, but he had offered no explanations, and she had rather neatly let the subject drop, and fetched the money for him. As he watched Jean took the bills and then she turned away from him, and placed them neatly in her jewelry box, closing the lid with a soft _snap._ But she had not counted the money, and for that he was grateful; perhaps, he thought, hope of salvaging the rest of their time together was not entirely lost.

"That's an hour," Jean said, and as if to prove her point she reached across the dressing table, and picked up a small hourglass, the bottom currently full of black sand. "It's a bit old fashioned," she said, catching his look, "but it does the trick."

And as he watched she walked over to one side of the bed, flipped the hourglass over, and set it careful down on the little table beside the bed, and the sand began to slip towards the bottom, seconds passing through that small funnel in a way that made his heart race.

 _You've got an hour, Blake,_ he told himself. _Make use of every second._

* * *

Jean had hoped, before now, that when the time came he would be confident, the way he always was, would sweep her off her feet; she had hoped that he would bring to bear all the certainty she lacked, that she could borrow some of his courage for herself. Where was bold Doctor Blake, who'd said outright he wanted to buy her? Who was this man, gentle and afraid, looking at her like she might shatter at any moment, his eyes big and round and earnest as a puppy's?

It would have been endearing, this sweet shyness, if Jean were not already wracked with nerves herself. One of them would have to be brave, and she had _so_ hoped it would not be her, had so hoped that he would find a way to make their coming together more natural, and less of a transaction.

 _You know what to do,_ she told herself, _even if he doesn't._

And so she crossed the room and stepped up to him, close as she dared, and slowly slid her arms around his neck, looking up at him all the while. His hands raised at once to settle on her hips, fingers pressing against her through the thin fabric of her robe and nightdress, and she smiled, relieved. He really was terribly handsome, especially like this, close, and warm, in that fine grey suit. She wore no shoes, and so she had to tilt her head back to look at him, and she could see the want in his bright blue eyes, could see the way his lips parted beneath his neat beard. It had been in her mind to say something clever, something teasing, but all thought of pretense left her in that moment, feeling his hands on her; she wanted to see what he might do.

What he did was bow his head, as if to kiss her, and so she pulled back, just a little, holding her lips just out of his reach. He seemed to understand what she was denying him, and did not press onward, but he lingered, as if unwilling to depart from her entirely. Oh, but he was close, now, his nose nestled alongside hers, his breath warm against her cheek; she closed her eyes against that proximity, want already churning in her belly.

"No kissing," she told him breathlessly.

Would that disappoint him? She wondered. Would he try to force the issue, would he try to change her mind, would he pout, would he turn away from her, disgusted by this reminder that she did not belong to him? There was silence, for a moment, and then she felt the lightest scratch of his beard against her skin as his lips lifted in a smile. He tugged her hips closer, until they were touching from knee to chest, and still he lingered with his face so close to hers, his lips hovering just over her own.

"Are there any other rules I should know about, Mrs. Beazley?"

As he spoke he squeezed her hips once, the strength in those hands undeniable; strength enough to hurt her, but she knew in that moment he never would.

"Don't leave any marks," she answered a little breathlessly as his hands slid between them, carefully tugging on the satin tie that held her robe together. She curled her arms more tightly around his neck, her fingers drifting through the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. Still he refused to move his head, his lips just _there_ , and _oh,_ she wanted to kiss him, but pride held her back, now. She'd told him no, and she would not change her mind now. Not even when she stood wrapped around him, not even when his lips remained so _close_ , not even when they shared every breath, passing it back and forth between them as her heart began to race.

"Anything else?" he murmured. The tie had come undone, and when he spoke she felt the faintest brush of his lips against hers. It wasn't a kiss, not quite, and so she did not admonish him, but _oh,_ she wanted -

"You wear a condom," she told him. It was a concession towards practicality that the customers almost universally hated, but which Jean had always insisted on. Jean was not as young as she had been, once, but she was not old enough to be entirely careless, and while she was not particularly concerned about the prospect of the Doctor carrying a disease she _was_ concerned about other possible ramifications of going without. There was already one baby in the Lock and Key, and one was enough.

"Agreed," he answered, and he rose just a little bit higher in her estimation for the way he accepted her terms without hesitation or protest.

Her robe had fallen open while she named those terms, and his hands had slid beneath it, traced the satin over her belly, gravitating towards her hips once more. Yet he stood still, while his hands undertook their gentle exploration, not gawping at her, not rushing at her, only maintaining the gentle contact of his face against her own, a tenuous thread of almost-connection between their lips that was not a kiss, but would have been, she knew, if she would only allow it.

Those hands of his, broad and strong and warm, were not idle; slowly, ever so slowly, they traced up her sides, her breath catching, just for a moment, when his thumbs brushed against the swell of her breasts. No doubt he heard that little hitch, for once more she felt his smile in the gentle movement of his lips. His hands did not pause, however; they kept moving, up and up, while her heart pounded in her chest, until he was tracing her collarbones, and then her shoulders, and then, oh then her robe fell to the floor, landing silent and yet full of insinuation at their feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: there's a lot more coming fam! Next chapter will likely be up by Saturday.


	14. Chapter 14

_16 June 1959_

In Lucien's experience sometimes temptation was sweeter than the thing itself; that period of longing, hanging on the edge, adrenaline pumping, the object of his desire tantalizingly sweet and close at hand and yet not quite his, chasing that _almost_ feeling, when every breath was full of potential, consequences and rewards equally likely and almost equally appealing, had been among his primary goals since childhood. The moments just before he ate the last biscuit, pilfered from the tin while his parents were sleeping, flirting with his best mate's girl drunk one night at university, knowing he could, knowing she'd let him, not knowing yet if he'd follow through, power coursing through his veins like the whiskey he was drinking, and then, after that, cheating death with Derek, slipping silently through the night to steal food from the Japanese officers' mess, knowing he could not steal enough to save himself and all his brothers-in-arms, knowing what he stood to lose and yet doing it anyway; yes, Lucien Blake had always had a taste for dangerous things.

And oh, but _she_ was dangerous, and they were hanging suspended in a moment fraught with temptation. He could almost taste her, close as they were, and as her robe slipped slowly to the ground he opened his eyes, drew in a deep breath laced with her and lifted his head just enough to look at her, to see what had been revealed beneath that soft black robe.

It was a black satin nightdress, smooth and cut to fit her like a glove, falling just below her knees. Standing as they were, impossibly close, he could see the way the lace around her chest hugged the smooth curve of her neat breasts, could see the outline of her nipples hard already and pressing towards him through the fabric. He could see her soft skin, the smattering of freckles across her chest a delightful, charming sort of surprise. And he could see, too, that her heart must have been pounding, as his was, that her breath must have been coming sharp and short for he could see the rise and fall of her chest, in a rhythm to match his own ragged breaths.

"You're beautiful, Jean," he told her then, because she was, and he wanted her to know it, wanted her to hear the words from his lips. She was a slightly built woman, shorter and more delicate than he, and there was beauty in every line and curve of her. Her hips, her breasts, her shoulders, her hands, the curve of her calf, the softness of her belly beneath the black satin, the fall of her dark hair, the parting of her lips; she was _beautiful,_ every inch of her, a woman soft and warm and lovely.

"You don't have to say that, you know," she answered, dragging her nails lightly across the nape of his neck before she reached for the lapels of his jacket.

"I know," he answered, letting her peel the jacket off him, drinking in the little hitch in her breath when their bodies brushed together in the movement. "But you are, just the same."

His jacket joined her robe on the floor and she grinned up at him, her smile somehow both sweet and wicked.

"You're overdressed, Doctor Blake," she told him teasingly, reaching this time for his tie.

"Call me Lucien, please," he answered. It pained him, to hear her refer to him so formally even in jest, considering what they were about to do, what they had done together so far. As if to emphasize his unspoken point he reached for her, while she picked at the knot of his tie, and let his hands drift slowly down her back until they settled on the firm swell of her bum, warm and bewitching beneath the nightdress. She swayed towards him, just a little, perhaps subconsciously - he _hoped_ so, at least - her hips slotting into place against his own and making his heart sing.

"Lucien," she agreed. She had not ever called him by his name, not once, but now that she had he never wanted to hear her call him anything else. But then she was pulling his tie free from his collar, and he was watching her, looking up at him, those grey eyes so unbelievably bright, pupils blown wide with the same longing that threatened to engulf him. They both seemed to hold their breath, as the tie slid out from around his neck, as her soft, pale arm stretched out and dropped it unceremoniously on the floor.

"That's better," she said, and reached for him, unpicking the button on his collar and then sliding her hands once more around his neck. The movements of her body were graceful, and designed no doubt to seduce him, but there was no need for artifice for he was half-hard already from wanting her, and so as she lifted herself up onto her tiptoes, her breath washing warm and sweet across his lips, he tightened the grip of his hands upon her bum, and pulled her hips flush against his own, wanting her to feel it, the want, the longing of his body calling out for hers.

"Still overdressed, Lucien," she whispered. Her lips landed sweetly at the corner of his mouth, but when he turned his head to catch her, determined to have his kiss, she pulled away from him, laughing, and left him to watch her walking away from him, toward the bed, hips swaying in a way that left his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. When he did not immediately follow - besotted as he was by the vision of her, the arch of her back, the swell of her bum, _Christ,_ even her feet were lovely - she looked back over her shoulder at him.

And then, oh then, she caught her nightdress in her hands, and slowly began to lift it up, tormenting him as the lace around the hem of that nightdress skimmed up the length of her thighs, revealing more and more of her to him, up over her bum, revealing that she wore absolutely nothing underneath it. His hands twitched, and his lungs constricted at the sight of so much bare skin, but she was not done; she kept going, until she pulled the nightdress up and off her, dark curls bouncing softly back into place. Such boldness was perhaps to be expected, but coming from _Jean,_ Jean who had been nothing but proper, Jean who had been kind and lovely and utterly practical in their every interaction, _Jean_ , who had ensnared him so completely, it was almost more than he could bear. He stood, still as a stone, staring at her, a vision of beauty despite - or, perhaps, because of - the little imperfections left here and there upon her body by the passage of time.

Perhaps he had been still too long; she looked once more at him over her shoulder, her eyes hooded and unreadable in the dim glow of the lamps beside the bed.

"You only have an hour, Lucien," she reminded him, and that spurred him into action at once. He reached for his own shirt buttons, already marching purposefully towards her, hardly daring to blink as she stood still with her back towards him, waiting for him. His fingers flew, working as quickly as he could, and he nearly ripped the shirt from his back, not bothering with the last button before yanking it over his head and casting it aside. He stepped out of his shoes and slipped out of his vest, and then, oh then he reached her, and he could not stop himself from putting his hands on her at once.

His palms ghosted over her belly, and Jean shivered, and settled back against him, her bare back against his bare chest, the slide of skin-on-skin positively electric.

"Beautiful," he whispered, bowing his head so that he could watch the progress of his hands across her body from his vantage point at her shoulder. He could see her, the soft curve of her belly, the dark thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs, her breasts - his hands gravitated there at once, molding to fit her, kneading her gently and drawing a sigh of contentment from her lips. The warmth of her, the softness of her, the way the swell of her bum fit into shelter of his hips, had him pressing still closer to her in an instant, desperate for more.

The rules had been made very plain to him; he was not to kiss her lips. But perhaps, he thought, that did not mean he could not kiss her elsewhere, and he decided the time had come to find out.

"Jean?" he said softly, turning his head into the crook of her neck. She raised one arm behind her to curl around the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, holding him against her while her body curved into a graceful arch, pressing her breasts harder into the shelter of his hands, pressing her arse more firmly against his rapidly growing hardness. In answer to his question she hummed, a gentle, contented sort of sound that Lucien found he liked, very much.

"Can I kiss you here?"

Before she could answer he was moving, his lips ghosting over the line of her neck, her skin warm and sweet enough to light a fire in his belly.

"Yes," she sighed.

No marks, she had told him, and so he did not linger overlong in any one particular spot and kept his teeth to himself, but he explored the column of her neck while still his hands worked over her breasts, catching her nipples between his fingers and drawing a little gasp from the back of her throat. If he'd had his way Lucien could have stood like that all day, learning how she wanted to be touched, what sort of sounds he might coax from her, but the sand was slipping through the hourglass, and he knew he could not afford such luxury.

It was no difficult thing, to turn her in his arms. He wanted to hold her, still, to draw her against him, to ask another question, but she just smiled, ran her hand once over his chest as if in appreciation before leaving the shelter of his arms for the sanctuary of her bed. Gracefully she stretched herself out there, let him watch her while she moved, her head coming to rest against the pillows, her soft legs looking somehow demure, thighs pressed tight together while she reclined for a breathless moment, waiting for him to join her.

There was an invitation in her movements, and it was not one he intended to deny.

* * *

In Jean's experience men did not often spend much time on the pleasantries, but she should have known Lucien would be different. He was so different - _they_ were so different, together. He touched her like she was precious, a gift for him to explore, like _her_ pleasure was his goal, and not his own. In the few brief moments Jean had devoted to thinking about this - about them, together, and naked, and in bed - she had hoped he would be like this, would be kind, and curious, and respectful of her. And she had hoped, too, that out of his shirt he would be as broad and strong and hard as she'd imagined, and he had, so far, outpaced her expectations in every possible respect. He was far too strong, too well muscled, too tan, too _beautiful_ to be a doctor, a man who'd lived a life of privilege, but Jean was not about to ask questions, because she _wanted_ him, and she had not wanted anything for so long that she had almost forgotten how, and the remembering was sweeter than she'd ever dreamed it would be.

Lucien understood that she was trying to move things along, and he did not make her wait. They only had an hour, and by her reckoning they had so far used more than five minutes, but less than ten. There was plenty of that hour left, but she wanted to spend the rest of it in bed, tangled up with him. She held out her arms to him, beckoning him on, and he joined her at once; her thighs parted on instinct to make room for him, and he settled into the cradle of her hips, strong arms holding him suspended above her while she ran her hands over his back.

But everything came to a crashing halt between them, then, as her fingertips traced his skin, expecting to find it smooth over the hard lines of muscle. What she found instead where the unmistakable ridges of scars, thick and ropey, horrible and grim. Terrified and fascinated she hesitated for a moment, her fingers stuttering across his skin, wanting to touch him, to explore, to learn what horror could have caused such damage, and yet not wanting to distress or enrage him.

"Don't ask me, Jean," he said heavily. "Not now, please." As if to emphasize his point he ground his hips against her, let her feel the press of his hardness beneath his trousers catching against her own bare sex, intoxicatingly close.

"I won't," she promised, and flattened her hands against his back, trying to draw him down towards her. "Not now." She dropped a kiss on his bare shoulder, wanting him to know that she understood him, understood that they had so little time, and to waste it on painful memories might cost them both the chance for the pleasure they had committed to give to one another.

"Can I kiss you here, Jean?" he asked her, and she knew that he was searching, then, for a way to draw them both back in the moment as he lowered his head, let his lips and his beard brush against her collarbone.

"Yes," she sighed, and felt the warm wetness of his mouth settle there, just for a moment. Her hands abandoned his back for safer pasture, reaching for his hair, for his shoulders, and she shifted her legs, let them both sink more firmly against the mattress while her toes teased the backs of his calves. He did not linger long where he was; he moved down, and down, and then his lips crested the swell of her breast.

"Here?" he asked her, but this time he was kissing her before she could answer, his tongue flicking against the hardened bud of her nipple.

"Yes," she answered breathlessly, her back arching up off the mattress as she sought to press herself more firmly against him. This time he did linger, and the warmth and wet of his mouth against her in such an intimate place left her head reeling. Pleasure sparked and flickered across her skin, her whole body growing tight and tense with need, the gentle scrape of his teeth against her skin drawing a whimper from the back of her throat. So far he had respected her rules, and he continued to do so now, for while he lavished his attention upon the swell of her breast he was careful, too, careful not to leave a mark, and for the first time she regretted that particular rule, just a little. She wanted to feel his want, unrestrained, wanted his strength, his power, his towering need, wanted it unfettered and wild, but this was beautiful, too, in its own way, the way he showed his regard for her and did not push the boundaries she had set between them.

But the seconds were passing, and Lucien knew it without need of her reminding him. He moved on, shifting lower down the bed.

"Here?" he asked, hovering just over her belly button.

"Lucien-" she started to stop him, but then he kissed her there once, gently, and moved again, only his head within her reach now as he settled between her parted thighs.

"Here?" he asked, glancing pointedly at her sex, and despite herself Jean blushed. Actually _blushed,_ and _oh,_ but she could not remember the last time that had happened. He was beautiful, and strong, and lying between her thighs, staring unobstructed at the most intimate part of her.

"You only have an hour," she reminded him, somewhat regretfully. She could not stop touching him, running her fingers through his soft blonde hair while he looked up at her, blue eyes wide and trusting, lips parted beneath his neat beard. "You don't have to."

They did, sometimes; some men enjoyed that particular act, but they were few and far between. Most came to the Lock and Key for one rather straightforward reason, and lacked the interest - or the creativity - to ask for more.

"I want to," he told her, and his voice was low and full of heat, and she knew then that he did, and that she wanted him to.

"All right, then," she agreed, and then he pressed towards her, and she was lost.

* * *

Lucien had absolutely no idea how much time had passed, how much he had left, but he was determined to do this for her, to hear her cry out in pleasure before he sought his own. She was too beautiful, and he wanted her too badly, and he feared that when it came down to it he would not take very long at all to find his own satisfaction. Jean deserved more than that, he thought; she deserved care, and devotion, and a man who wanted only to make her happy, as he did. It would be worth the precious minutes spent here, he thought, to make her come undone, to see her shiver in delight. He wanted to know what she looked like, when she gave herself over to her release, wanted to see her body taut and tense with longing, wanted to see the flush that would paint her skin, wanted to _feel_ her delight, and know that he was cause.

When she agreed to his request her voice had trembled, just a little, but not with doubt, he thought. She wanted this, and he was not about to deny either of them.

This was one thing he knew he could do well, and so he set to with a will. Slowly, at first; he lowered his head towards her, let her feel his breath wash against her silken folds, already swollen and glossy with need of him. Slowly, he let her feel the brush of his beard against her, and felt his own triumph at the way she canted her hip towards him, silently asking for more. More was all he wanted to give her, and so he closed his eyes, and went to work.

He kissed her there, learned the shape of her with his lips before he dragged his tongue against her folds. She gasped, high and sweet, and he grinned, and redoubled his efforts. He flicked his tongue against her, swirled it round her opening, drank the sweetness from her until she sighed, and then he thrust his tongue inside her molten heat.

"Oh, _god,"_ she breathed, shuddering against him, her thighs tightening reflexively round his head while her nails scraped lightly against his scalp.

 _A good start,_ he thought, and so he repeated the motion a few times, each time drawing a new sound from her. But still, he knew he could not afford the luxury of too much time, and so when he felt he'd teased her enough he relented, and dragged his lips across her soft flesh, searching, searching, until he found the place that made her cry out, low and full of need. Satisfied that he had found his mark he wrapped his lips around the little bundle of nerves at her center and flicked against it with his tongue, once, experimentally.

" _Lucien-"_

That was all the encouragement he needed. Lucien rested his weight on his left side, and brought his right hand up, sliding his middle finger into her slowly, slowly, while still his tongue ran circles around her, and she seemed to come to life beneath him, her hips bucking against his face while her muscles tightened with strain.

" _Oh,"_ she gasped, once, and he grinned, and increased the fervor of his ministrations, curling his finger inside her, pressing at her everywhere he could, trying everything he could think of to bring her to the brink.

Her breath was coming in panting gasps, now, her hands having abandoned his hair to curl in the covers, holding on for dear life while her back bowed in a graceful arch and her thighs tightened, and relaxed, and tightened again around his ears. He added a second finger and she moaned, desperate, hungry, pleased with him - he though, he hoped - and so he began to push her, on, and on, and on, lips and tongue and hand working in tandem, following the breathy moans and desperate little whimpers that tumbled from her lips, pinning her in place with his own weight, forcing them both from pleasure to pleasure without hesitation.

It seemed that words were beyond her, but he did not need them; he needed no instruction, for the tightening of her inner walls around his fingers told him all he needed. Faster, and harder, and faster he thrust his hand against her, laved her with his tongue, his beard burning her skin, his nose buried in her curls, his every sense overwhelmed with her, his every thought replaced with _now, now, let me feel her now._ Her voice, her smell, her taste, her warmth, the way she looked when he opened his eyes and gazed down the plane of her body to see her head cast back and her face contorted in ecstasy; Jean was everything, in that moment, the whole world, heaven and hell, and everything in between.

The temptation was sweet, and he was eaten alive with possibility, here in this precarious moment of _almost._

" _Please_ ," she gasped at him raggedly, and he could almost feel her heartbeat against his fingertips, and he could not stop, not for anything, and everything was breathless, and spinning, and Jean's fluttering sex was clutching at him, desperate, and he was grinding his aching cock against the mattress in a hopeless bid for relief, and _almost,_ she was _almost -_

" _There,"_ she gasped, and then -

A keening sound, high and sweet, escaped her, and then she went breathless, and silent, her hips desperately trying to lift off the bed, held in place by his hand and his mouth as beneath him she shattered at last, trembling, a rush of wetness against his lips and a wild hope rising up within his heart.


	15. Chapter 15

_16 June 1959_

Jean's legs were shaking as she slowly released her grip on Lucien's head, pleasure sparking through her body like lightning, quick and fast and unpredictable as she tried to catch her breath and he grinned up at her, this impossible man, from his vantage point between her thighs. He looked unbelievably smug, she thought, and unbearably handsome, and she wanted the heat of him, the weight of him against her, wanted to hold him, wanted to revel in this moment of joy, and release, and freedom.

How long had it been, since last she'd felt this way? Not just physically satisfied, not just delighted by a particularly skilled set of hands, but this... _weightless,_ as if all her cares had ceased to be, as if the only thing that mattered in the whole world was _them,_ her, and him, and the understanding between them that allowed them both to do and say whatever they wished, without concern or consequence. There were no bills to pay, no disputes to settle, no eyes watching them; there was just _him,_ his cheek against her thigh, his blue eyes focused solely on her, his soft hair beneath her trembling fingertips, and she knew whatever she asked of him in this moment he would give it to her, and gladly. There had been others, before, who had fallen all over themselves to please her, eager to bring her gifts, to make her smile, thinking grand thoughts of catching her like a budgie in a cage and keeping her forever, but she had never _wanted_ their regard the way she wanted his. She _wanted -_

"Come here, Lucien," she said softly, and he smiled bright and eager as a school boy, and she laughed at him as he hurried to join her. Though she would not call the precious minutes he had spent lavishing attention upon her a _waste_ she knew they had used a fair bit of time already, and she wanted him, now, before the hourglass ran out of sand and she was faced with an impossible choice between her heart and her pride.

Lucien made to stretch himself out above her but Jean rolled onto her side, and he followed her unspoken command, landing flat on his back beside her.

"You're lovely," she told him softly, her lips finding the rise of his shoulder while her hands went to work on his belt.

"Hardly," he laughed.

"You are," she insisted, watching him closely as she unbuckled his belt, as she pulled it slowly free from his trousers. "Lovely," she repeated, throwing the belt away and returning to unfasten the button of his trousers, lifting herself up just a little so that she could press her lips against the thick column of his neck. His breathing was unsteady, now, as she slowly lowered the zip on his trousers. She could feel him, just beneath her hand, hard and straining for her, and she could feel the pounding of his heart beneath her lips. He _wanted_ her, and he had done so much for her already, and every inch of him was hard, and strong, and perfect, and they had so little time, and Jean wanted, with all her heart, to set him free, to make him feel same delight, the same release, that he had brought to her. She wanted to see what he might do, when his passions were loosed in earnest, wanted to know how they would feel, together, lost in their abandon and their desire for one another.

There were a good many things Jean had learned over the years, about men, about what they liked, about how to entice them, how to control them, but Lucien required no such skill from her. The movements of her hands were not practiced, or calculated; she touched him because she wanted to, because he was beautiful, because he treated her gently, because her heart had begun to care for him in ways she did not yet want to consider. They only had so little time, and the heat of him beneath her hand was almost more than she could bear, and so as she kissed his neck, as his palm ghosted over the notches of her spine, as his chest rose and fell sharply beneath her, she drew down the zip of his trousers and reached for him at once, her hand sliding beneath his trunks and wrapping around the thick column of his shaft and drawing a strangled sound from the back of his throat.

Restrained as she was by the confines of his trousers she could not explore him quite as thoroughly as she might have wished in that moment, but she could feel that this piece of him, too, was big, and intimidatingly, thoroughly, male, hard as marble and yet silken to the touch, and she held him, lifted her head to watch his face as she pumped him slowly, wanting to know if she had inflamed him, as he had her.

His head snapped back against the pillows as her hand worked over him, his hips bucking up helplessly into her grip, his eyes screwed up tight and the tendons of his neck drawn taut with strain. In that moment he was _hers_ , and she knew it, felt her control over him fierce as fire running along her skin.

" _Christ,_ Jean," he groaned, and then he reached for her, wrapping his hand around her wrist and stilling her movements as he opened his eyes at last. Those eyes, dark with desire, seemed to burn with need, and she shivered, just a little, knowing the latent power he possessed, wondering what might become of her if he turned the full force of his strength upon her.

"If you keep doing that," he told her in a gravelly voice, "we might both be disappointed."

Jean laughed and drew her hand away, giving him the reprieve he sought, for both their sakes. He had not come to her for a quick release while he was still wearing his trousers, and there was a great deal more she wanted from him besides. But the seconds were passing, and she opened her mouth to tell him to get a move on, then, but there was no need; he began at once to shimmy out of his trousers, and as he did she rolled away, and opened the drawer of the little table beside her bed, noting as she did that nearly - but not quite - half the sand had already slipped to the bottom of the hourglass. Perhaps a break in her attention might allow him to regain some of his self control, but her decision to move now was more practical than anything else; while he removed the rest of his clothes she was pulling a condom out of the top drawer of that little table, and when they rolled back together he was bare and the condom was ready.

"Stay there," she told him, when his hands reached for her hips, and he didn't hesitate, simply lay stretched out on his back, watching her, placing himself entirely in her hands - literally and figuratively. Jean liked that about him; most men did not want her to be bossy - plenty of them didn't want her to speak at all - and those that did enjoyed it for reasons that had nothing at all to do with her, and everything to do with their own desires. Lucien, though; Lucien made her feel like she was equal to him, in this and in all things. Lucien watched her curiously, as if he wanted to see what she might to do. Lucien seemed to delight in her, and she in him, and _oh,_ she had not had this much fun in bed since…

Not since Christopher, not since she was young and wrapped around a man she loved, a man who had loved her, and she pushed those thoughts away, unwilling to face them when she still had time left to spend with Lucien.

With his eyes on her she rose above him, and settled herself down on the hard plane of his thighs. As if on instinct he reached for her, his hands settling on her hips, as if he felt, as she did, that he could not go another second without touching her. With the condom unwrapped and Lucien's hardness pressing proud and eager towards her belly Jean set to work, and slowly, slowly, lowered it onto his shaft, rolling it down while he twitched in her grip, his hands tightening reflexively against her hips. She _liked_ this, the heat of him beneath her hands, his whole body open for her perusal, his eyes on her like she was the most precious thing in the world. There was something delicious about it, having a big man, a strong man, utterly at her mercy, open and willing beneath her, knowing he welcomed her attentions and was not seeking to push her aside for his own desires. His desires were _her_ desires, she could see that now, and when her fist reached the base of his shaft he groaned for her, and she smiled.

With other men she might have asked him what he wanted next, how he wanted to take her, whether she ought to move, but with Lucien there was no need for such a question. She knew what he wanted; she could see it in his eyes, could feel it in her own heart. And so she planted one hand against the solid muscle of his chest, holding herself steady, as with the other she gripped his hardness, letting him watch while slowly, slowly, she aligned her body with his. For an instant, one fragile breath of a second, she hovered above him, the tip of his shaft brushing against her folds, both of them frozen, anticipating, knowing that he was hard and ready for her and she was wet and aching for him, knowing that every second they had spent in one another's company had been leading them here, to this. Sometimes, in Jean's experience, the anticipation was sweeter than the end result, but somehow she knew that would not be the case, not this time; the anticipation was intoxicating, but she knew that the feeling of him inside her would be more overwhelming still, and she was ready, now, to find out for once and for all what they were like, together.

It had been ten years since last Jean had gone to bed with a man, and while Lucien had done more than enough to prepare her for him still she took her time with him, sinking down onto him slowly, inch by torturous inch; she dropped down, slowly, then rose up until he slid almost entirely out of her before taking him in again, and again. Each time she felt herself closer to falling, felt the hollow ache inside her abate and then resurge in time to the movement of her hips. Lucien watched her, held her all the while, his panting breaths music to her ears, his hands on her not forcing her one way or another, but simply following her movements as if in reverence.

She rocked against him, losing herself in the movement, taking him deeper, and deeper each time her hips fell, her fingertips curled against the hard muscle of his chest, his eyes burning through her. The heat and the hardness and the beauty of him reached so deep within her that she trembled, utterly devastated by how badly she needed him, and how perfectly he seemed to fill that need. A steady stream of sounds left her lips, a gasp, a whimper, another, and another, Jean unable to stop them, unwilling to even try. Let him hear how he affected her, the pleasure she drew from this connection between them; let him feel it, she thought, the way her body molded to fit him, held him tight, as if she never wanted to let him go.

" _Jean_ ," he groaned, one hand leaving her hip to cup her breast instead. She sighed and threw her head back in abandon, thrusting herself down upon him until he was fully seated, and she was grinding against him, the heat and friction between them setting her bones on fire. With one hand she covered his at her breast, encouraged him to hold her more tightly, rocking her hips against him and sending them both spiraling closer and closer to bliss. She wanted the strength of him, now, wanted to feel this connection to him everywhere she could, and perhaps he felt the same for in the next breath he was sitting up straight, bending his knees behind her back so she could rest against them while she slid more firmly into the cradle of his hips and they both sighed, trembling, at the change in angle between them.

Now he was close, closer than he had been before, his chest against her chest, his legs at her back, his hips beneath her, his _eyes -_ oh, he was just there, and to stop herself from kissing him she threw her arms around his neck and drew him closer still, until his face was nestled in the crook of her neck and his lips were pressed hard against her skin.

Her movements were more limited, now, but there was a sweetness in this closeness that brought her more joy than she could have imagined. He rocked up into her, his hands thrown out behind him for leverage, and she ground against him, his hardness buried deep within her and the angle of their bodies catching against the place where she needed to feel him most. The slide of their skin was slick and hot and beautiful, the burn of his beard against her neck tempered by the softness of his lips, the sweet flick of his tongue against her pulse point. Need was coiling within her, her inner walls clenching tight around him, desperate to draw him closer, hold him closer, her every muscle trembling with strain, breathing all but impossible, now. Every movement of his body beneath her drew her closer and closer to the brink, and she chased that relief without conscious thought, her body recalling the steps of a dance that she had not undertaken in so very long.

"I want to feel you come apart for me," he whispered against her neck, teeth catching lightly against her skin, and Jean moaned at the very idea of achieving such satisfaction while he was still inside her, of knowing that he would feel it, too. She moved faster, and faster still, his thighs at her back a welcome support, and he met her thrust for thrust, and kissed her neck, and groaned, and her whole body seemed to contract, drawing tighter and tighter until she thought she might break from the strain out of it, crying out for him, not knowing what words passed her lips, only gasping, desperate, and then -

And then he turned them, without warning, and plunged smoothly into her while his fingertips ground against the bundle of her nerves at her center. The sudden shift had her clinging to him in an instant, her fingers digging into the ruined plane of his back while her ankles liked tight together around him, just above his bum, and her sex clenched him tighter still, and he swore once, harshly, and thrust into her like a man possessed. The power of him, the strength of him, the way he took her then shattered her utterly, and she came apart beneath him, her whole body rising up, drawing him down, a high, needy cry leaving her lips as she trembled and shook beneath him and his hands held him steady, watching the pleasure take her over, just as he had said he wanted to.

* * *

Somehow, he held on. There was no need for it, he knew; they did not have enough time to go again, and he was wearing a condom as she asked, and surely it was expected, but he drew in a deep breath and held it and willed himself not to fall, not yet, not until he had witnessed every second of her rapture. There had been a few women in his life, before Mei Lin, and a few since, and he had cared for most of them in one way or another, but he was not sure that any of them had made him feel as Jean did in that moment, awestruck and hungry, her pleasure more important to him than his own. It had been like that with Mei Lin, Mei Lin who he had adored so completely; her abandon had been his reward, more than his own, for she had been his very heart, for a time. Mei Lin who was his wife, who had been lost to him for so long, Mei Lin whom he had loved; that he felt much the same for Jean now as he had once felt for his wife would be a riddle for him to examine later, for in that moment he wanted only to watch her, to see her, to hold her.

For a few moments she trembled, and sighed, and tried to catch her breath, and her palms ghosted over his back, and if she had been any other woman he would have recoiled from that touch but coming from Jean there was a comfort in it that he sorely needed, and so he did not correct her. He bowed his head, and brushed his lips against her sweat-slicked forehead, his arms still holding him steady above her while her legs remained locked tight around his hips. As sweet as it was, this moment of _after_ , when everything was soft, and close, and full of affection, he knew it could not last forever, and it was Jean, perhaps mindful of the clock, who drew it to a close.

"You didn't…" she said softly, her eyes fluttering open, worry in their swirling depths.

"No," he answered, smiling, kissing her skin again. "I wanted to watch you."

She shivered, and he felt her sex flutter around him, though he did not know if it was his words or some remnant of her pleasure that affected her so.

"Here," she said, lowering her legs from around his hips, drawing her hips back so that he slid slowly, regretfully out of her. "Here," she said again, reaching for him, and he understood then what she intended, and his mouth went dry and his whole body shuddered.

With a practiced sort of indifference towards the messiness of it she rolled the condom off him and threw it down into the little bin beside the bed - practically placed for just such a use, no doubt - and then she wrapped her hand around his cock and his hips jumped towards her reflexively, a startled groan leaving his lips. She shifted beneath him, just a little, until his cock was lying against her soft belly and both her hands were holding him, working over him, pumping his weeping shaft while her grey eyes burned into him and he trembled above her, rutting uselessly into her grip.

" _Christ,"_ he groaned, the tight slide of her hands, now wet with both of them, the knowledge of what she wanted from him, what she wanted to do for him, tipping him closer and closer to the edge.

"I want to watch you, too," she told him breathlessly, her eyes never leaving his face. "I want to feel it, too."

She was beautiful, naked and glorious and soft and flushed from his attention, the red burn of his beard against the column of her neck, her hair mussed and utterly charming around her sweet face, and the movement of her hands, tight and wet, sped up to match the thrust of his hips, and he could almost feel the smooth skin of her belly beneath him, and she _wanted_ and he _wanted_ and _oh-_

With a roar he came undone, twitching in her grip, spilling his release across her soft skin while he closed his eyes against the bliss of it, savoring every moment, and all the while she watched him, smiling.


	16. Chapter 16

_16 June 1959_

As Lucien trembled above her Jean stole one very brief glance at the hourglass, and found, to her delight, that it was not yet empty. She did not want it to be empty, did not want to rush him from her bed, to lose the warmth of him above her, to have to acknowledge that despite the beauty of what they'd just shared he'd _paid_ for it, and could be allowed no more than what he'd purchased. They had a little time, yet, a _very_ little time; given how rapidly the sand was falling through to the bottom and how little was left at the top, she reckoned it was no more than five minutes, and found herself both disappointed, to think their time would be ending so soon, and grateful that Lucien had managed to wring so much from the precious minutes he'd been given.

Above her he sighed, coming back to himself, broad chest still heaving with his panting breaths, and then his eyes opened, and they were so warm and so full of fondness for her that a knot formed in the back of her throat, and she found herself blinking back tears.

"You still have a few minutes," she told him softly, reaching up to run her fingers through his sweat-slicked hair.

"Good," he said. And then - "erm," he added, shuffling around, "one moment."

Jean watched curiously, smiling at him and indulging in the sight of his powerful body, naked and warm, as he left her side and draped himself over the edge of the bed, rooting around on the floor for a moment before he cried "Aha!" in triumph and emerged holding his vest.

"Here," he said, and before she could ask him what on earth he was doing he knelt beside her, and gently wiped her belly clean with his vest. It was a chivalrous gesture, she thought, and a practical one, and she was grateful for it; while she had enjoyed herself in the moment Jean had always disliked _mess,_ and he had rather selflessly volunteered to take care of that particular issue without her having to voice her concerns, spared her the need to speak of something that had seemed so beautiful to her a few minutes before, and now seemed only vulgar.

"There," he said when he was finished. He gave himself one quick pass with the vest, tossed it aside, and then flopped down beside her. He was quiet for a moment; they both were, breathing slowly in the stillness, lingering in this fantasy world they'd created, one that existed only for them. But Lucien Blake was by nature a talkative man, and he did not remain silent for a long; after a few breaths he turned to face her, and ran his hand over her hair.

"Can I hold you, Jean?" he asked her shyly, sweetly, and the urge to kiss him welled up within her, stronger now than it had been before, even when he was inside her. What a dear man he was, to treat her so courteously, to seem to want so badly to simply be _with_ her, so badly that he had willingly spent one hundred pounds and every ounce of his enthusiasm to demonstrate that want to her. Jean did not answer his question with words; she only smiled at him, softly, and rolled against him, draped herself over his chest while his strong arms rose to encircle her at once, broad hands ghosting gently over her back while she rest her chin against his chest and watched him from inches away, this beautiful man who had so shaken her resolve, and yet remained so much a mystery to her.

"Can I ask you something, Jean?" he said then, tilting his chin so he could look into her eyes.

"You just did," she answered, dropping her head to press a kiss against the hard, solid muscle of his chest. "But yes, you can. You have a few minutes still."

 _Three or four at the most,_ a prudent voice whispered in the back of Jean's mind, but she did her best to ignore it, wanting to focus on the pleasure at hand, and not the inevitable doubt and loneliness that would come with his departure.

"What happened to your husband?"

It was somehow not at all the sort of question she'd been expecting, and she could not help but frown. What would make him ask such a thing, she wondered, when he was lying warm and naked beneath her, when he would have to leave with his vest balled up in his jacket pocket as proof of their entanglement with one another? Was this the question he most wanted an answer to, or had he simply decided to start there, and work his way towards something else, something even more personal? And did she want to answer him, truly, to open that door so long kept closed, to lie in bed with a man and speak Christopher's name aloud? It seemed an insult to his memory, to do such a thing, but Jean had done a great many things she reckoned Christopher would have taken as an insult before this evening, and there was no judgement in Lucien's eyes; perhaps, she thought, he might understand.

"The war," she said, softly, and his eyes darkened in recognition, his arms tightening that little bit more around her.

"I'm sorry," he answered, and she knew that he was. "Is that how you came to be here?"

Coming from any other man she might have taken the question as an insult. She had accused him of wanting to save her, to steal her independence - that was how they'd wound up here, after all - but she knew now that was not the way of it, not with him. Not yet. He might in the future decide to try to coax her away, but he had so far met her on her own ground, according to her own terms, and treated her respectfully. Perhaps, she thought, he deserved the same in turn.

"Yes," she said simply. "We married young. I had everything I wanted, for a time. I had a beautiful husband I loved, who loved me. I had a home I was proud of, I had two children who were the center of my whole world. And then the war came, and took him from me. When Christopher...when he didn't come home, I found out the truth. He'd taken out loans I knew nothing about, and I couldn't keep up with them on my own. Before he left, he managed the farm, and I worked as a seamstress on the side. He died in 1942, and there was a shortage of men to help with the farm. I worked in the school tuck shop for a while, but it wasn't enough to keep up with the loans. The bank encouraged me to sell, but…"

"It was your home," he said in a quiet voice, as if he understood, which she rather thought he did.

"It was our dream," she answered, just as softly. "I couldn't let it die. But no one was hiring, anywhere. I'm more than capable in a kitchen, but the cafes and the bakeries didn't have any openings for me. I'm a dab hand at gardening, but the florist didn't want me, either. The richer families all wanted live-in help, in those days, and I had the boys with me, so they wouldn't hear of it. No one else was looking for hired help, with the war on and the men gone. I'd run out of money and run out of food and that's...that's when she found me."

"The old madam?"

"Yes." Jean wasn't looking at him any more; she couldn't face his gaze. Never, not once in nearly two decades, had she shared this piece of her history with anyone else. There were some who knew a little, but there was no one who knew the whole story, the truth that Jean carried within her heart. And yet here, with Lucien, she found she _wanted_ to share it, to share with _him,_ and hear from him in turn. There were scars upon his back, plain as day, and while her scars were darker, and harder to see, they felt the same, somehow, to her.

"She found me in the laneway outside the baker's. I'd spent the whole day being turned away from every door I knocked on, and the boys were with my sister. I wasn't ready to face them yet, and...well. Truth be told I was having a cry. She must have heard me." Jean smiled at the memory; even now, knowing what the woman had done, how she had ensnared Jean in this life, it was hard to hate her, for she had been kind to Jean when no one else seemed to even see her. "Her name was Mrs. Harker. Her husband had owned the pub, and organized the girls, but he'd died many years before we met. At first she just hired me as a cleaner."

Lucien made a surprised little sound in the back of his throat, and Jean smiled, a bit grimly.

"I'll have you know, Doctor Blake, I have always been a church-going woman. I knew what sort of a place this was, and my husband had been dead less than a year. I was young but I wasn't stupid. I didn't want any part of what she did."

"But-"

"Do you want to hear the story, or not?"

He looked suitably abashed at that, and so Jean smiled, and continued. "I worked for her during the day, laundry, housekeeping, that sort of thing. Young Christopher was already in school by then, and my sister Eadie looked after Jack. Her boy Danny is around the same age as Jack, and her husband had been injured early on in the war, and sent home. They were doing all right, keeping their heads above water, but they couldn't take us in. I wouldn't let them, in any case."

She'd drifted off topic, thinking about Eadie and Lawrence, about those grim days when her sister had enough to eat, and she had tried to hide the fact that she didn't. Pride, Jean had learned, was a great motivator.

"I found it hard, at first. I had a certain idea of what sort of woman does work like this, and I'm afraid to say I judged them for it. But that changed. The girls were all very kind to me, and I grew to like them. Mrs. Harker paid me enough to keep the farm, and no one else in town had offered anything close. I was happy, for a while."

"What changed?" The question was asked gently, and his tender hands against her skin were gentler still.

 _Everything,_ Jean thought. "I found out how much money the girls were making," Jean said. That wasn't the start of it, not really, but it had mattered rather a lot to her, at the time. "I was barely scraping by, and the officers from the army base were paying handsomely for an hour's work. There were others, too, men who were too old for the CMF, or who'd been sent home already. The pub was doing fine trade, even in those days. I'd been working for Mrs. Harker for about a year when she said there was an officer from the base who'd expressed some interest in me. He came in the afternoon, had a standing appointment with one of the girls, but she'd left and he was looking for someone new. He must have seen me upstairs. Actually, I'm not so sure he even knew who I was. When I think about it now, I think maybe she just saw a convenient opening. She always had a good head for business."

At the time Jean had believed Mrs. Harker, and never questioned it. Only with age and experience had she begun to realize how smoothly she'd been manipulated, but by then it was too late; she'd chosen her path.

"So you agreed?"

"Not at first," Jean said, shaking her head at the memory. "At first I was appalled. I couldn't imagine doing such a thing. But she didn't give up. The boys were so young, but even then Christopher was doing so well in school. And she told me...she told me that if I earned a bit more money, and set it aside, maybe one day I could send him to university. Give him a better life, away from the farm we couldn't keep up, away from this little town. That's what made me consider it. I'd always dreamed of leaving Ballarat, travelling the world, but my circumstances wouldn't allow it. I wanted better for my boys. Christmas was coming on, and even with what Mrs. Harker was paying me I was only just keeping ahead of my bills. A little bit would have gone a long way, in those days. And the other girls, they didn't seem unhappy. They were always friendly to me, and they had everything they needed. So eventually I said yes."

* * *

Lucien listened, spellbound and silent, as Jean told her tale. All thoughts of the hourglass had been forgotten, now; Jean was lost in memories, and Lucien was too enraptured to interrupt her. She was warm, and soft, draped over him like a blanket, and she seemed comfortable here, with him, spilling out her secrets. Lucien, wanted very much, to take those secrets and keep them safe, to understand her better, this woman who had, rather suddenly, become more important to him than any other.

"The officer liked his daytime appointments, and that suited me best. I could agree, and no one would ever know. The boys would be looked after, and Eadie knew I had a job at a pub during the day. I kept telling myself that, that no one would ever know. Mrs. Harker was kind to me, when I finally said yes. She didn't treat me any differently. And the officer...he was kind, too. In his own way. I thought I'd hate it, I thought it would feel terrible. And I did feel guilty. I went home and cried. But I had earned more in that hour than I'd make in two weeks cleaning. And those notes meant not having to worry about food, or Christmas presents. They meant I could put a little by for the future. Maybe it was the wrong choice. Father Morton would say it was the wrong choice."

Lucien knew the old priest from a previous case, and he could not help but agree; Father Morton almost certainly would have judged Jean for the choices she'd made.

"But Father Morton doesn't have any children, and the world is kinder to a single man than it is to a woman on her own."

That was true, and Lucien knew it, and so he bit his tongue. Was it the wrong choice? To sell the one thing she could for the chance at a brighter future for her children? The world as Lucien knew it was a cruel one, a hard one, and some people had harder choices to make than others. But oh, how he cursed that world, and the God he didn't believe in, for placing such a choice in front of Jean, Jean who was bright, and beautiful, and deserved so much better.

"So after that, I took the daytime appointments. City councilors, solicitors, a few of the other officers. I was always careful, and Eadie never knew a thing about it. She knew they were paying me well, at the pub, but I didn't let her know how much, or what for. I worked upstairs for almost five years like that. The war ended, and the men came home, but even if I'd hired someone to come out and work the farm with me I'd never bring in as much as I did at the pub. And young Christopher was so bright, so clever. I was sure he was going to go to university, and I was going to send him there. And in the end, it turned out Mrs. Harker didn't want me working upstairs forever, in any case. She was getting on in years, and she'd found out I had a good head for numbers. She started talking to me more about the business side of things. She put me in charge of deliveries, and then she handed the books over to me. And in 1947 she told me she was going to officially retire, and she wanted me to take over the business."

Lucien smiled, despite the rather grim feeling in his heart. No doubt this Mrs. Harker had seen, as he did, that Jean was far too clever to be _just one of the girls_ forever. She might not have had the education or the experience to run another sort of business, but after a few years of instruction, learning the ins and outs of this trade, she no doubt had shown the makings of a fine successor. Lucien had the benefit of seeing Jean as she was now, seeing how well she ran the Lock and Key, but Mrs. Harker had clearly recognized her potential all those years ago, and capitalized on it at once.

"I could have sold it, I suppose," Jean continued, beginning to wrap up her tale. "She turned everything over to me. But the girls would have had nowhere to go, and I didn't want to throw them out on the street. So I sold the farm, and moved in here with the boys, and that was that."

There was a resignation in her tone, a soft sort of lament, that Lucien understood very well. He knew what she had not said, that she had taken the job as a means of keeping her farm, and then sold the farm anyway, in the end. What had it been like for her, he wondered, raising two sons in a place like this? Had her sister ever learned the truth of the work she did, and if she _had_ , how had she taken the news? Had young Christopher ever gone to university, the way his mother dreamed he would?

"Jean-"

"Don't you dare tell me you're sorry," she cut him off, though she kissed his chest once more, as if to take the sting out of her words. She sighed, and gave a shake of her head, but before she said another word her gaze drifted towards the hourglass on the side table, and she frowned.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Blake," she said, and those two words _Doctor Blake_ settled in his chest like a block of ice. "I'm afraid we're out of time."

In that moment Lucien wanted, very much, to ask for another hour. He would have paid another hundred pounds, if that's what it took, simply to lie with her, soft and close, and keep the world at bay a little while longer. She was so very beautiful, and so very sad, and there was so much left to _say,_ but she had called him _Doctor Blake_ and as she did she rolled away, rising smoothly to her feet and dancing across the room, sliding into her black robe once more and hiding her nakedness from view.

"All right," he said, not protesting for fear it would offend her. He left the bed more slowly than she had done, shuffling around in search of his trunks.

It was a strange sort of feeling, getting dressed with the weight of her gaze upon him, instead of her gentle hands. Over the course of the hour - and more, now, he was sure - they'd spent together he had felt so close to her, as if their hearts were beating as one, had started their time together bumbling and afraid and ended it feeling as if she were a piece of his very self, but now...now there was a distance between them, and he did not quite know how to bridge it.

The moment he was dressed he straightened his shoulders, his ruined vest balled up in his hands, and looked at her, beautiful and soft in her robe, her hair mussed up and the red mark of his beard burned against her neck, and his heart broke, just a little, knowing that he had to leave her.

"Thank you, Jean," he said earnestly, meaning every word, wanting to thank her for her warmth, her hands, the understanding she had shown him, the trust she had given him along with her secrets.

She smiled at him once, softly, sadly, but did not speak.

"Can we do this again, sometime?"

He was desperate already for another chance to hold her, if only so he could whisper to her quietly of all the thoughts that swirled through his mind, all his regret and half-formed hopes.

"Whenever you want, Lucien," she told him, and that would have been enough for him, but she did not stop there. As he crossed the room she took his hand, and held it, and then she lifted herself up onto her toes, and kissed his cheek. It was a soft kiss, a chaste kiss, and it meant more to him than any other he had ever received.

"Let me walk you out," she said, and so he did, holding her hand all the while.


	17. Chapter 17

_16 June 1959_

As he drove slowly home Lucien's mind was pleasantly empty of everything save for Jean. The way she had looked, naked and flushed and arched beneath him, the terrible sorrow in her voice as she told him what had become of her husband, the tender trust she had shown to him, the gentle way she'd kissed his cheek; she filled his mind completely, with no room for anything else. After just one evening, one too-brief hour, she had become so dear to him that all the rest of the world seemed to have faded into nothingness. There were so many questions he still longed to ask her; where had her husband served? Had he and Lucien once stood upon the same blood-soaked piece of dirt? Had he by chance been one of the thousands of starving brother-in-arms Lucien had lived with cheek-by-jowl for the long years of his incarceration in Selarang? And what of her boys; had young Christopher gone off to university, and made a life for himself, the way his mother had always dreamed? And when, _oh,_ when would he see her again?

He _would_ see her again, of that he had no doubt. Sarah and her baby no longer required daily visits from their doctor, but surely one or another of the girls might have need of him, and soon. Even if they didn't, he had found his way to the Lock and Key on his own often enough, and there was nothing stopping him going back there just to see her, to arrange another quiet hour spent in her company. If the price remained the same he would pay it; it was a grievous sum, for one hour's pleasure, and he could not carry on in that fashion indefinitely, but Thomas Blake had left his son quite well off indeed, and Lucien would not miss another hundred pounds. Not if Jean was to be his reward, Jean who was so lovely, who was so sad, whose heart seemed to know his own already.

An unpleasant surprise was waiting for him at home, however, for as he pulled in the drive he found a Ballarat police car already parked in his usual space. It would be Matthew, no doubt, but what reason there could be for this visit Lucien could not say. It was not so very late; he had overstayed his hour by more than a few minutes, but it was not yet gone 7:00. Funny, that; it felt to him almost as if a lifetime had passed, while he was lying warm and content in Jean's bed. As if everything had changed, and he no longer recognized the world around him.

Even more unsettling, Lucien found as he stepped out of his own car, was that Matthew was not loitering on the steps, or waiting behind the wheel of his car. There was no sign of him at all, and when Lucien tried his front door he found it unlocked. That was curious indeed; no one else had a key to his home save for old Mrs. Penny, and she had long since left for the day.

"Matthew?" Lucien called as he walked through the door, hung his hat upon the peg, his ruined vest still balled up in his fist.

"Kitchen!" Matthew called back.

That answered that, at least; it did not seem as if Lucien had been burgled. He followed the sound of Matthew's voice to the kitchen, and found him sitting at the table, a half-eaten plate of food and a half-drunk glass of whiskey in front of him.

"I believe that's my dinner," Lucien said, gesturing towards the plate. It was only then that he remembered the vest he carried, and he dropped it to the floor, kicking it out of the way and going to join Matthew at the table.

"There's enough to go around," Matthew grumbled. "Besides, it didn't look like you were going to be here to eat it. Are you in the habit of running off with your front door unlocked?"

"No, actually," Lucien answered honestly. Matthew had left an empty glass by his usual place, and the whiskey bottle was close at hand, and so Lucien reached out and poured himself a healthy measure.

"You must have been in quite a hurry, then."

"Matthew-"

"I'd ask you where you've been, but I don't think I'll like the answer."

Lucien didn't think so, either. It had been less than a fortnight since Matthew had delivered his warning, implored Lucien to be careful, and yet Lucien had just gone and done exactly what he'd promised he wouldn't. Sleeping with Jean - and paying a king's ransom for the pleasure - most certainly did not qualify as _careful._

"I wasn't expecting company," Lucien said, dodging the issue rather artfully, he thought. Matthew's frown told him otherwise.

"I wasn't expecting my police surgeon to go gallivanting off without telling anyone where you'd gone. I even sent one of the lads down the Lock and Key to look for you, but he said you weren't in the dining room, and all the girls swore they'd never seen you."

He hadn't been in the dining room, of course, and none of the girls _had_ seen him, save the one who'd let him at the beginning, and she might well have been otherwise occupied when Matthew's constable called round. It wasn't a lie, exactly, but that didn't make Lucien feel any better about it.

"Of course, I didn't tell him to go knocking on doors upstairs."

"Not that I'm not happy to see you, Matthew, but to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Lucien's response was not as measured as he intended it to be; in truth, Matthew's presence had rattled him, left him feeling uneasy in his own home and a bit guilty about how he'd spent his evening, all the joy and hope that Jean's touch had brought him slowly dissipating beneath a cloud of worry.

"There's been a murder," Matthew told him grimly. "I had hoped my police surgeon might be able to spare a few minutes to come have a look at the body."

Lucien lifted his whiskey glass to his lips, and drained it in one long pull.

"Let's go then," he said when he was finished, and that was that.

* * *

When his hour was done Jean walked Lucien out of the Lock and Key, bid him a fond farewell at the back door and then locked it behind him before returning to her rooms for a bath. It was a luxury afforded to the lady of the house, the private bathroom she did not have to share with anyone else, and Jean was grateful for it as she sank herself into the steaming water and sighed, a bit sadly.

Lucien had been...wonderful, in every possible regard. He had been gentle when she needed him to be, powerful when she wanted him to be, had been honest and warm and simply... _wonderful._ And he wanted to see her again, and she wanted that, too, wanted another hour when they could lie together, familiar with one another, when they could laugh together, when she could let her fingertips dance across the scars that scored his back and hear his secrets, as he'd heard her own. She wanted to know those secrets, the meaning of those scars, what he'd meant when he told her he did not know where his daughter was. There was so much she did not know about this man, and yet she cared for him, already, far more than was wise for a woman in her position.

Though the bath was warm, and comforting for long-forgotten muscles now aching from use, idleness did not come easily to Jean. The night was wearing on, and while Maureen had offered to keep watch until closing time Jean found, as the minutes passed, that she did not want to be alone, any more, did not want to fall asleep early with no one beside her. She did not want to let her thoughts run rampant, did not want to give one inch of ground to the worries that had begun to creep in.

 _What if,_ a little voice whispered to her in the stillness, _what if he comes back, but he can't pay the price? What if he does not want to pay at all? What if he falls in love, as others more foolish than him have done, and makes a mess of everything?_

Jean did not have answers for any of those questions, and so she stepped resolutely from the bath, and went to dress. Each garment became a layer of armor, a brick building a wall between _Jean,_ who had met Lucien wearing so little, and _Mrs. Beazley,_ who never went downstairs without stockings and pins in her hair. She took her time about it, making sure that no sign of Lucien remained upon her skin; the red mark of his mouth on her neck had faded somewhat, and the pub's dining room would be dim, but she buttoned her collar all the way up, just the same. When she was ready she gathered up her knitting, and made her way downstairs.

It was a Tuesday evening, getting on towards 8:00, and there were more than a few gentlemen lingering round the bar. The girls had each found a mark for themselves, and were circling their quarry like crows. Jean left them to it.

Maureen was sitting in Jean's usual booth, and it was there she went, waving to Elizabeth behind the bar and indicating she wanted a cup of tea on her way.

"It went all right, then?" Maureen asked as Jean settled onto the seat beside her.

Jean was silent for a moment, fishing her needles and yarn from the bag where she kept them, arranging everything in her lap. The blanket for Sarah's baby had been finished just in time, and so she had set out on a new project. It was to be a jumper, for Jack, perhaps, if he put in an appearance at Christmas. For the charity bin if he didn't.

 _Had_ it been all right? She wondered as she fussed with her knitting. In terms of simple pleasure Lucien had been exemplary; physically, she had enjoyed herself more than she could recall having done in years. Those strong hands of his, the way he had rolled her beneath him and taken her like a man possessed; _that_ had been a great deal more than just _all right._ And after, after he had been soft, and sweet, and held her, and that had been better than _all right,_ too.

"Christ," Maureen grumbled, no doubt interpreting the truth from Jean's long silence. "Mind your face or every man in here will know exactly what you've been up to."

Jean wanted to protest, but Elizabeth arrived then with her tea, and so she only smiled at the girl, and waited until she was out of earshot before answering in a more reasonable tone.

"Doctor Blake is very nice, and he paid well."

"What's rule number two, Mrs. Beazley?" Maureen asked her archly.

Jean did not answer, she did not need to. Rule number one was _you can always say no,_ and rule number two was _keep feelings out of it._ There was no room for _feelings_ in a business like this. That was how trouble started; a man took a shine to a particular girl, and took offense when she went to bed with another man, and started a brawl. And then Jean would have to deal with it, and try to keep the police away, for the moment a policeman who wasn't on her payroll stepped through that door her life, her livelihood, her freedom, and the safety of her girls would be in peril.

If a girl went moony over a customer it was just as bad, in a different way; she'd start to resent the work, and grow miserable in it, and if she could she would leave, and Jean would wish her well, but most of the time they couldn't, and they didn't, just stayed and spread their unhappiness like a disease through the ranks. The customers were by and large married men - a fact Jean had spent nearly twenty years trying to ignore - and even those who weren't came to the Lock and Key precisely because there were no strings attached. If a girl _wanted_ strings, then those men would laugh, or stop coming altogether, and both were bad for business. _He doesn't want to take you away,_ that was a hard truth Jean had murmured to more girls than she wanted to count, crying in her arms as they realized that whatever they felt the one they loved didn't, and would never, love them back. _He's no different than all the rest._

 _Lucien is different,_ Jean thought then, but she recognized her own foolishness, and tried to stifle that particular voice.

"It's business," she said airily. "That's all."

" _Business_ left a love bite on your neck," Maureen answered darkly. "Thought that wasn't allowed."

Of all the girls Maureen was Jean's favorite. Everybody knew it; Maureen had been there the longest, and Jean relied on her for everything. It was Maureen Jean was slowly coaching to take over the pub, when her own time was done. Jean was forty-four, nowhere near as old as Mrs. Harker had been when she'd stepped aside, but even so she did not want to be in this business forever. She wanted to see more of her boys, and neither of them had stepped foot in this place in years, nor would again, she knew, no matter how she might long for it. Young Christopher was married, and inclined towards starting a family, and Jean very much wanted to get to know her grandchildren, one day. She'd been setting money aside for years, building her savings in hope of one day leaving the Lock and Key far behind, and living out her days on her own terms, answering to no one. When that time came, Maureen was the one she wanted to hand the keys to. Maureen was steady, and sober, and she did not tolerate foolishness. She had a good head on her shoulders, and the men liked her sharp wit. Jean liked it, too, most of the time, and most of the time she was grateful that Maureen possessed not one single ounce of romanticism, but just now she wished that wasn't the case. Maureen had never felt the wild call of love, the warmth of it, the comfort of it; Maureen laughed at the very idea, and Maureen would never understand.

"Or are the rules different for you?"

"If you won't be civil, Maureen, I may just go back upstairs."

The threat did the trick; no doubt the girl was a bit bored, having sat alone for so long, and eager for company.

"All right," she said. "All right. Just...if there's going to be changes around here you will tell me, won't you?"

"No changes," Jean promised, taking a sip of her tea. "Now tell me, how has it been?"

It was enough to turn the conversation in a different direction, and so they passed the time together, talking quietly while Maureen sipped slowly at her lukewarm beer and Jean's knitting needles flashed in the dim lights overhead. Everything was for sale in the Lock and Key, and everything that could be bought was purchased that night, save for the one thing no man could buy with money. For now, Jean's heart remained her own.


	18. Chapter 18

_26 June 1959_

That night, _the_ night, after, when Jean escorted Lucien to the door and bid him a soft _goodnight,_ she had been certain he would be back as soon as he could, perhaps even the next day, eager for a second showing. He had, after all, asked her if they could meet again, and she had assured him that they could, whenever he wanted. The decision was in his hands; it was not Jean's place to request a meeting herself. He was the paying customer, and if he wanted to see her again he would have to ask. But though she had looked for him, he had not come; Sarah and her baby no longer required daily visits, and arrangements had been made for them to move to Queensland in a fortnight. Without that rather convenient excuse, Doctor Blake had not put in an appearance, and that troubled Jean somewhat, for in the weeks before their dalliance he had not waited for an excuse to see her, had come to her in the evenings, and sat beside her in the pub, and talked to her quietly as if no one else in the world existed. Now, though, now it had been ten days, and no sign of him.

If she were younger, less experienced and less sure of herself, she might have worried that Doctor Blake had not enjoyed his time with her as much as she initially believed. As it was, however, Jean knew very well that he _had_ enjoyed himself; he'd left her side with that dazed, love-drunk look that only a thoroughly well-shagged man could wear. Her face must have looked much the same that night, she knew, for he had shaken her down to her very core, and awoken within her a need that had lain dormant for so many long years. For the first few days after his departure that need had coursed like fire through her veins; she had looked for him each time the bell rang out above the door, and each time she looked and did not see him her heart had been flooded with disappointment. She _wanted_ him to come back, and she had not ever wanted that before, not like this.

But if he was not displeased with her, if he did indeed wish to see her again, as he had told her he did, what could be keeping him from her side? Why this long delay, this drought in his affections, when he had so earnestly opened the floodgates of his own passion while he lay in her bed? _He is a very busy man,_ she tried to tell herself, but his occupation had not previously been an obstacle keeping him from the pub. He had found the time for her before, why not now?

The days passed, in their usual way, and though Jean was perhaps a bit quieter than usual, and though Maureen watched her bit more closely than she ordinarily might have done, there was no interruption to her daily life. Jean cleaned, and kept the books, and fed her girls, and waited, and waited, and waited some more, and in the waiting she felt the bonds of her life begin to chafe, just a little. Jean did not often venture from the pub; Dimitri delivered food and drink every Friday, and so she had no cause to go to the butcher's or the greengrocer's. She went to mass on Sunday, and one Thursday a month she went to confession and listened to Father Morton sigh, made weary by the repetitive nature of her sins. In the warmer months she went to the florist's, sometimes, and purchased flowers for her girls, and when the need arose she'd pop into the haberdashery, or the fabric store, but her clothing was well made - for she'd sewn it all herself - and was not often in need of repair, nor was she often in need of new pieces. The Lock and Key was the center of Jean's whole world, and weeks would pass when she did not leave it, save to go to church. Hers was a small life, and she had been happy in it, but now, consumed with worry, having had a taste of something more _exciting,_ the walls seemed to close in around her, and Jean found herself suddenly anxious for an excuse to leave.

Other women did not worry, when they stepped out from their homes, what sort of reception they might receive in the town. They met friends for tea and lunch at the cafe, and smiled to their neighbors as they strolled through the shops, and sometimes threw small dinner parties attended by their nearest and dearest. Other women had families to tend to, and did not cause a stir when they showed their faces in public. Jean, though, Jean knew what people thought, when they saw her pass by. Not everyone knew what she did; there were some who went their whole lives never encountering anyone who knew what could be purchased in Jean's establishment, but enough people did. The women gave her a wide berth and whispered behind their hands, and the men either leered at her knowingly or pretended as if they could not see her at all. The haberdasherer frowned, when she darkened his doorstep, and the florist watched her pityingly, and Jean could almost hate them both, for the way they looked at her. Inside the pub she was a queen in her castle, but outside it...outside she was a pariah, and though for years she had taken their judgement in her stride, knowing the reasons for the choices she had made and knowing the number of the notes she had carefully put aside to support her in the future, now she was beginning to feel the pinch of her isolation. The girls were lovely, and Jean adored them all, but she had wanted so much _more,_ when she was young and full of dreams, and to find herself still stuck in Ballarat after all this time was galling. It was Doctor Blake who had awoken this restlessness in her, she was sure, Doctor Blake who was worldly and well-traveled, who treated her so differently from all the rest, who wore the story of adventure written on his skin. Doctor Blake who had disappeared, and left Jean with nothing but questions.

Whatever she was feeling, however, life did not stop or slow; Friday came again, and with it came Dimitri, and his smiles and his truck full of provisions, and so Jean did what she did every Friday, pulled on her trousers and her most sensible shoes, and went outside to greet him.

" _Kaliméra,_ Jeannie!" Dimitri called cheerfully as he climbed down from the back of the truck carrying a box full of potatoes.

"Good morning, Dimitri," Jean answered warmly.

"Your man is here today?" Dimitri asked.

Jean frowned. He'd asked her that every Friday since he'd met Lucien, eager no doubt for the chance to converse with someone who spoke his own language. It must have been hard for Dimitri, Jean knew, to be so very far from home, in a place so mistrustful of outsiders, and Lucien had been kind to him. He'd been kind to Jean, too, but he had left her, just the same.

"No, he's-"

" _Kaliméra,_ my friend!" a hearty voice called out behind her, and Jean spun on her heel, shocked to find Doctor Blake marching through the doorway. He'd already disposed of his jacket and his hat, and was even then in the process of rolling up his shirtsleeves, apparently set on assisting Dimitri as he had done once before.

"And good morning to you, Mrs. Beazley," he added as he walked by her, his smile soft and gentle, and Jean felt a sudden flash of anger wash through her. _How dare he?_ She thought to herself as she watched him leap easily into the back of the truck, reaching for the nearest box while Dimitri chatted animatedly with him. How dare he just turn up, out of the blue, without warning or apology, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if he had any right to barge right into her home without invitation? How dare he looks so handsome, and smile at her as if he had not wounded her grievously, as if he assumed he had already been forgiven for leaving her alone and in doubt for so long? Or did he think it was of no concern, that she would be content to wait for him for as long as he wished; did he think of her at all? Rich men, in her experience, often gave little thought to anyone save themselves. She had thought that was not the case with Lucien but perhaps, she realized glumly, she had been wrong on that score.

"If we could move things along, gentlemen," she said acidly, and thought they both frowned at her they did as she asked, and began to haul their wares into the pub under her watchful gaze.

The work went faster, with Lucien's help; he handed down some of the lighter boxes to Jean, sparing her the need to clamber into the truck herself and watching her with curious eyes, and Dimitri hustled back and forth, eager to move the boxes so that he could get back to laughing with Lucien. When everything but the kegs had been settled Jean went back into the kitchen, fussing over her provisions while the men rolled the kegs down the ramps. She did not want to watch them at their work, did not want to see the sheen of sweat on Lucien's brow or the ripple of his muscles beneath his shirt and be reminded of how he'd looked, naked and stretched out over her, the way he'd made her feel when he turned the full force of that strength loose upon her. She did not want to think about how wonderful he had been, holding her; she wanted to be angry, and so she held onto that anger for as long as she could, believing it to be her only defense.

At last the work was done, and Dimitri was out of excuses to linger.

"He is good man, Jeannie," Dimitri told her, clapping Lucien on the shoulder. "Strong man. You keep him here, yes?"

"We'll see," Jean answered archly. "Be well, Dimitri."

He waved to her cheerfully, and shook Lucien's hand, and then he was leaving, and she was alone with Doctor Blake and her anger and her uncertainty.

"Jean?" Lucien said, a bit hesitantly, as he walked back to her side. "Could we...could we talk, please?"

For a moment Jean wanted, very much, to tell him _no,_ and send him on his way. To make him wait, as she had been forced to do. But he had worked so very hard to help her, and he was so very handsome, and despite the ten days of silence he'd forced her to endure he was a kind man, and she did not want to be petty or cruel. She would defend herself, always, but he had done her a service, and she knew he ought to be thanked for it.

"Cup of tea?" she asked him, and then without waiting for an answer she spun on her heel and marched back into the kitchen. He followed behind her, docile as a chastised puppy; he closed the door behind them, once they were safely back inside, and went with her to the same corner where they had sat and sipped their tea weeks before. As Jean fired up the ancient kettle and began to gather the tea things he settled himself onto the same stool where he had sat once before, watching her all the while. She felt the weight of his gaze upon her back, but she did not turn to face him, did not dare ask him what he was doing, coming round the pub in the middle of the day like this, when he could have just as easily come days before, and spared her so much worry.

"Jean," he said softly, when the silence grew too heavy for him to bear. No more _Mrs. Beazley,_ now; perhaps what they had shared together had been too personal, too intimate, too earth-shattering for him to revert to such formality, but Jean had been too long in this business, and compartmentalization came too easily to her.

"Doctor Blake?" she answered, when he did not follow up with any sort of question.

Behind her Lucien sighed, and the beginnings of guilt stirred somewhere deep in her belly. It had only been ten days, after all, not a month or two or six, and he _had_ come, and -

"I'm sorry I've been away for so long," he said then, and she could not help but turn to him, wanting to see his face, and when she did she saw that he looked most contrite, and the last tenuous threads of her anger vanished altogether.

"There was a murder, that night I was here," he explained. "Matthew Lawson was waiting for me, when I got home. We've been terribly busy, and I had to go to Melbourne for a few days. I thought about calling, but I don't even know if you have a phone, and I wasn't sure if that would be acceptable, in any case."

He was telling the truth. Over the years Jean had heard all sorts of lies from all sorts of people, and she had learned to recognize when a man was being sincere, and when he wasn't. His work was important, and unpredictable, and she knew that. Likewise she realized as she watched him now that he truly did not know how to navigate their current circumstances; it wasn't as if they were courting, but absent the normal rules of engagement between a man and his paramour Lucien was left with absolutely no understanding of what was and was not appropriate. Jean knew what she was, and knew she was not his lover, or companion, or whatever word adults used to describe the person they were walking out with when _girlfriend_ seemed to immature and trivial a descriptor. She had been called a _whore_ so many times the word had lost its sting. She had no claim over him, could not expect him to ring her or write to her or visit her or bring her flowers, for their relationship was transactional, and nothing more. _We are friends, though, aren't we?_ She asked herself, and in the asking of it realized just how muddled things between them had become.

"You can ring me here, if you want to," she told him slowly. "But you don't have to tell me every time you leave town, Doctor Blake." _I'll be here, waiting for you. That's all I can do, is wait._

"I want to tell you, Jean," he answered earnestly. "And I want, very much, to see you again."

"Well, you're here now," she told him, and behind her the kettle began to whistle.


	19. Chapter 19

_26 June 1959_

_Well, you're here now._

Lucien swallowed hard as all the blood in his body rushed south with an alarming speed. Though he had come to the pub today intent on seeing Jean, hungry for a sight of her face after so long without, intent on making arrangements for their next assignation and leaving here certain that he would be able to hold her again, _you're here now_ made it sound rather as if _she_ did not intend to make him wait. Would she allow him such grace as to fall together with her now, once their tea was finished? How different might things go between them, he wondered, if they were allowed the luxury of a full conversation beforehand?

Perhaps he had been quiet too long; Jean had been busy pouring their tea, but when that task was finished and he still had not spoken she turned to face him. With a cup held carefully in each hand she looked at him, and then, rather unexpectedly, she laughed.

"Oh, I didn't mean we should...I didn't mean right this moment, Doctor Blake," she told him, smiling, and Lucien cursed his own foolishness as he accepted the cup she offered him, already sugared to his taste.

"I have to make arrangements," she explained. "I need someone else to cover for me, if I'm going to be...occupied. Tomorrow might suit, though."

 _Damn,_ Lucien thought.

"I'm afraid it can't be tomorrow," he said aloud. "I have a patient coming to see me in the morning, and I've arranged to have dinner with Matthew Lawson. Sunday might be more agreeable."

Jean frowned.

"We don't do business on Sundays here, Doctor Blake," she told him primly.

Even working girls deserved a day of rest, Lucien supposed, and Mrs. Beazley had told him she attended Sacred Heart. Unexpected as it was to find such religious devotion in this particular house Lucien did not protest, or comment on the strangeness of it, knowing that to do so would only offend her. He wanted, very much, _not_ to offend her; he wanted only to make her happy.

"Monday, then?" he suggested.

Jean had settled onto her own stool, her ankles neatly crossed, her cup cradled in both her hands. The color was high in her cheeks, and those damnable trousers fit her so well, and she was...lovely, utterly.

"Monday would be fine," she allowed.

"Same time?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Same terms?"

For a moment Jean watched him over the rim of her teacup, and he wondered what on earth could be going on behind her brilliant eyes. Was she weighing him up, wondering if she ought to ask for more money, wondering if he was asking for leniency regarding the rules about kissing and condoms? Had he made a misstep in asking, would it have been better to wait for her to name the terms herself? Much as Lucien was enjoying every moment of their burgeoning acquaintance he found himself rather at sea, with no rudder to guide him. Theirs was no ordinary dalliance, and he had absolutely no idea how to navigate it.

"Yes," Jean said finally. "Same terms."

"Done, then."

Jean hummed in agreement, and took a sip of her tea, and Lucien found himself floundering, utterly at a loss as to what he ought to say next. Arranging their next meeting had been foremost in his mind, but now that he'd accomplished that task, he did not know what course to take. Ought he tell her about his trip to Melbourne, the body that had been discovered, the medical records he'd slogged through at the hospital there? He wasn't entirely sure how she would respond to the gruesome details, and she seemed to believe the excuse he'd given for his absence without need of further proof. There were other things he wanted to tell her, about how difficult he was finding it, knowing what to say to her and when, how he longed for some direction from her, some indication as to the sort of relationship they might have, now. If she'd been any other woman he would have taken her to dinner, or to the Rex, would have invited her home, gone strolling through the park arm-in-arm with her, but Jean was not any other woman, and he was sure such indulgences wouldn't be allowed. He _wanted_ to indulge where she was concerned, however, and he wanted to know whether she wanted the same.

"You're thinking awfully loudly, Doctor Blake," she said softly, frowning as she took another sip of tea.

"Jean, I was thinking. The other night, when we….well."

Her frown deepened, and she set her teacup carefully on the sideboard, folding her hands primly in her lap and watching him warily. That wouldn't do; she had seemed somewhat cross, when he first arrived, and though it seemed he had soothed her initial ire now he felt rather as if he were in danger of reigniting it, and putting an end to things between them before they'd even really begun.

"Yes?"

"Well, I just...it was wonderful, Jean. You were - you _are -_ wonderful. I don't think I said that, before."

Her smile was fleeting, and strained, and he knew at once that it was insincere, and his heart sank like lead in his chest.

"Not just the...well, _that_ was lovely, but I...I very much enjoyed talking to you."

"I think you know I enjoyed myself, too, Lucien," she said, and though the words were delivered very carefully the fact that she spoke his name, did not call him _Doctor Blake,_ gave him cause to hope.

"And I would quite like to continue our conversations, apart from... _that."_

Her posture relaxed infinitesimally, and it was only then that Lucien recalled how they ended up in bed together in the first place, how she had so fiercely defended her independence, and condemned him for wanting to save her. To tell her now of the dreams he harbored in his heart, the way he longed to court her properly, would likely only get him kicked out of the pub, and so he did not give voice to those desires, and only watched her, waiting.

"So would I," she agreed tentatively. "Now, tell me about this murder business."

* * *

It was hardly a polite topic of conversation, but Jean found herself enthralled as Lucien explained about the body that had been found, the work he'd been doing in the many long days he'd been away from her side. There was something fascinating about it, untangling the threads, solving the riddle, and it was clear Lucien enjoyed his work, and Jean enjoyed watching him, passionate and pleased with himself. He really was such a dear man; he had been so earnest, when he told her how he had enjoyed their evening together, so eager to arrange their second appointment, and now he seemed so content in her company that she did not have the heart to charge him even one shilling for it. There was something terribly appealing about sitting here like this, with him, sharing a cup of tea and a conversation that had absolutely nothing to do with the Lock and Key, or Jean's own business. It was not often Jean was allowed the luxury of sitting with a friend, and she found she rather missed it. Oh, the girls were lovely, but her every interaction with them was colored by the work they did, the knowledge that they were technically subordinate to her. Lucien, though, Lucien treated her as if she were his equal, sharing these details of his life with her, and not only trying to get into her knickers. Well, she supposed he had done that, too, but once the arrangements were made he had lingered, wanting only to speak to her, and she had let him, for she wanted the same.

But as he talked she found her mind wandering; he really was a terribly handsome man, sitting there in his shirtsleeves. Memories of the night they'd spent together kept floating unbidden through her mind, the image of his broad, bare chest, the sound he'd made when she took him in hand, the way his muscles had flexed beneath her hands. She watched his lips beneath his neat beard and remembered all the things those lips had done - and all the things they hadn't, no matter how she might have wished for it - and she felt a flush rise in her cheeks at the very thought. It had been like this with Christopher, in the beginning; she recalled it well, how once they'd tumbled together that first time, young and eager in his parents' hayloft, they'd been desperate for one another, hungry, hardly speaking for weeks as they chose instead to explore the new delights they'd discovered between them. The first blush of love, she'd thought that's all it was, the discovery of something new and precious, bodies lit on fire by _want_. The want had not cooled, exactly, but it had changed, and they had settled more comfortably together, after that first blush of love had left her pregnant and them married. They'd learned how to do both, to love one another with their bodies and with their hearts, and been content. She had not thought to feel its like again, that burning, eager want, but as she looked at Lucien she knew the cause for the blush in her cheeks, the sudden racing of her heart. She _wanted_ him, as she had not wanted anyone since Christopher died, and _oh,_ while she did not want to consider the implications of that connection she likewise did not want to continue on denying herself this pleasure she longed for so dearly.

Perhaps Lucien felt the same, or perhaps he had read some sign of her thoughts on her face, for he stopped speaking, rather suddenly, and his eyes grew dark in a way she had already learned to recognize, and he reached out and placed his cup carefully down on the counter.

"Jean," he said softly, his voice low and gravelly and sending a shiver down her spine. "Thank you for the tea."

Of course, both their cups had run dry by now, and he had no excuse to linger. Perhaps it would have been wise to send him on his way, and save this longing for Monday, when he was set to come back to her. At least, Jean tried to convince herself that it was wise, but her traitorous heart clamored only for _more, more, more._

"You're always welcome here, Doctor Blake," she told him, trying to make the words sound polite and not enticing as she rose to her feet. She reached out to grab the two cups and carry them off to the sink, but the movement brought her close to him, and in the next breath one of his hands had settled heavy and warm against her hip.

There were rules about this sort of thing, in the Lock and Key. If a customer sought to indulge himself in a pleasure not yet purchased he would be reprimanded, always. Jean encouraged the girls to keep a certain distance from the gentlemen, between meetings; _give them an inch, and they'll take a mile._ If a man thought he could touch, or kiss, or hold a girl outside his allotted time, if he wanted to, if she let him, it almost always spelled trouble. The customers got it in their heads, sometimes, that whatever was between them and the girl of their choice was more than just _business_ , and muddying the waters that way always led to trouble, confusion and hurt feelings, sometimes violence, almost always the loss of his business. Jean knew this, and she knew she should not allow Doctor Blake to touch her today, knew she ought to tell him to save it for Monday, or offer payment now. But she _wanted_ him to touch her, and the sensation of his hand against her hip had her whole body aching for him in a moment.

"Jean," he said, softer still, and as his voice washed over her she knew that she was lost.

Jean turned to him then, and found him watching her, wanting her, as his other hand rose up to claim her other hip, as with those two hands he drew her towards him. He was still sitting on that stool, and now she was standing between his parted thighs, and he was holding her, and he was _close,_ and his eyes were so very blue. Everything about him drew her in; she wanted to run her hands through his hair, wanted to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips, wanted to hear him speak to her in that same harsh whisper she'd only heard from him while they were lying in her bed. Most of all, most of all she wanted to kiss him, to thank him for coming back, for not leaving for her, for listening to her, for seeing her, for being here, where she wanted him to be.

Unable to resist the temptation she leaned towards him, caught his face in her hands, her thumbs tracing the neat line of his beard while he watched her, breathless and anticipating.

"You are so beautiful, Jean," he told her, and his voice was nearly a growl, and it pleased her more than she would like to admit to hear those words from him now. He had said the same thing when he first saw her half-naked in her room, and she could tell by the look on his face that he meant it just as sincerely now, that in her trousers and neatly buttoned blouse she effected him as deeply as she had done when she wore no more than a short satin slip.

"Charmer," she teased him softly. _Oh,_ she wanted to kiss him. He smelled like sandalwood and soap, and his skin was warm beneath her palms. Those hands of his drifted down from her hips, slid over the outsides of her thighs, and she bowed her head, let her nose brush against his, softly.

"It's true," he insisted. "You are so beautiful, and so clever."

It had been a long, long time since anyone had called her _clever_ , and certainly no one had ever done it quite like this; those broad, strong hands of his were ghosting up the backs of her thighs, now, and she swayed a little bit closer to him.

"Taking something you haven't paid for is theft, Doctor Blake," she whispered the words against his cheek, and those hands of his drifted up over the swell of her bum, and she felt herself in danger of falling all together. He kneaded her flesh none too gently and a soft sound of surprise escaped her; she was not surprised at the touch, but she _was_ surprised by how gladly she welcomed it, how badly she wanted it. Her lips were hovering over his now, her eyes closed as they dangled on the very edge of this cliff. They breathed as one, in and out, and still she held his face, close, _so close,_ and his hands squeezed her harder, rocked her against him.

"It isn't taking if we share, is it?" he murmured, and when he spoke his lips brushed her own, his beard soft against her cheek.

 _Oh,_ but this was dangerous. The proscription against kissing was as old as the business itself, a way of allowing the girls to keep one thing for themselves, to draw a line between business and romance. She could not allow herself to kiss him, so long as he was paying for her time. But he hadn't paid for this, and he was right - she wanted him as much as he wanted her. _Damn him,_ she thought, damn him for making her want him, for making her forget her own rules. She had crossed a line already, and to do more was madness, but he was just _there_ , and she knew if she gave in now, if she kissed him as she so dearly longed to do, she would not be able to restrain her passion, no more than would he. She hadn't kissed anyone since Christopher died, and she yearned for it, yearned for this man, for his talented mouth, for the taste of him, for the heady buzz of desire, made pure somehow without the taint of payment. She drew in a breath, slowly, deeply, and sank against him, closing the short distance between her lips and his, and then -

"Mrs. Beazley!" Maureen's voice rang out from the dining room, and Jean lifted her head to listen, Lucien's hands still firmly gripping her bum, his forehead falling against her collarbone as if in defeat, as if he realized that the moment had shattered, and there would be no restoring it. Jean felt a pang of regret, for the loss of what might have been, and so she ran her hand over his hair, gently, soothingly, as she called back in answer.

"In here!"

She dropped a tender kiss against the top of Lucien's head and then stepped away from him, out from between his legs, his hands falling away from her slowly. She did not want to look at his face, for she feared that if she saw her own regret writ large there she might not be able to resist the temptation to take him up to her room right then. But she had to resist; she must. There were rules, in this place, and she could not break them, not even for him.


	20. Chapter 20

_27 June 1959_

"Do you often keep your mail under your dinner plate?" Matthew asked him pointedly as Lucien settled into his seat at the head of the table.

Lucien frowned, and lifted his plate gingerly, revealing the envelope that lay beneath it.

"This must be Mrs. Penny's doing," Lucien muttered, mostly to himself. He'd been avoiding that particular letter for days before his jaunt to Melbourne, and apparently having realized that he'd not yet opened it his intrepid housekeeper must have taken pains to ensure it was left somewhere he could not ignore it. It seemed like the sort of thing she'd do; she didn't tolerate mess, and she could not abide anything being left out of place.

"Must be some letter," Matthew said.

Lucien hummed, tucking the letter neatly into his jacket pocket. Some letter, indeed; another missive from the private investigator in Hong Kong. The one who was burning through Lucien's money almost as quickly as Jean, the one who had for over year since message after message saying only _no news, will keep looking._ This letter felt thicker than the others, though. It felt heavier, when Lucien balanced it on his palm, and when he held it he felt a sense of foreboding lance through him. He'd not opened it, had not read its contents, but somehow, somewhere deep inside his heart, he feared he knew what that letter said.

No one had seen them, his wife and their beautiful little girl, since he put them on the boat to Hong Kong. That had been November of 1941. By 7 December Japanese bombs were falling on Hong Kong, on Singapore, on Pearl Harbor and Guam; from that date until mid February when Singapore finally fell, Lucien had known only chaos and the taste of blood in his mouth, and had no word of his family, nor any time to search. Then he had languished for three long years at the hands of his Japanese captors, and by then it was too late. All traces of his family were gone, if indeed they'd ever made it Hong Kong; records from those days were sketchy at best, as after the bombing and brutality of the Japanese China had been gripped by its own civil war. He'd been rostered out of the army after his release; skinny and starving and half-mad from grief the Army had determined he could no longer be of use to them. But the government needed spies, and they'd taken one look at him, rangy and wild-eyed but classically educated and fluent in more than half a dozen languages, and signed him on at once. Spying for the government was an affront to his political sensibilities, but it gave him an excuse to travel throughout Asia, searching desperately for his family in between covert assignations. But then all attentions seemed to shift towards Korea and Indochina, and Lucien knew there was no chance of finding his family there. Petulant and weary of the machinations of the global powers he began to drink, and drink, and drink some more, volunteering for assignments even Derek thought were too risky, narrowly avoiding death more times than he could count. His recklessness earned him praise, in the beginning, but his obstinacy and lack of regard for consequences eventually made him a liability, and he found himself kicked out into the cold.

That was how he'd ended up here, after all. There was no more government work coming in, and his hands shook too badly for surgery in London or Edinburgh, and Berlin was no longer the beacon of arts it had been when he was young and foolish, and his father was dying. There had seemed no other choice, when he'd washed up in Ballarat a year before. A permanent address, a steady income, no medical emergencies more pressing than the occasional appendectomy passed off to the surgeons at the hospital; there were consolations, to life in Ballarat, and he told himself that if Mr. Kim found his girls, it would all be worth it, and he'd leave this place behind gladly.

Only he didn't think Mr. Kim would find them, after all, and he didn't think he'd be leaving. That letter was a portent of doom, he was sure of it. And when he read those words, when the pain seared through him sharp and finite, he would be left here in this place he no longer hated as he once had done. The house was comfortable, Matthew was a good friend to him, and he had arranged to meet with Jean on Monday night.

 _And you don't deserve one bit of it,_ he thought, thinking about that letter in his pocket. _You should have died when they did._

"Blake?" Matthew said his name softly, seriously, and Lucien jerked out of his maudlin reverie with a start. It wasn't the first time such thoughts had come to him, and he was certain it wouldn't be the last. It wasn't fair, somehow, that he should still be living while his beautiful girls were lost, that he should be drinking and seducing the local brothel keeper, his life a pitiful thing. Oh, the work he did for the police was important, and he tried his best to look after his patients, to do some good in this world, but he wasn't sure he'd earned this gift he'd been given, these last eighteen years.

"Looks good," Lucien said, gesturing to their dinner. "Tuck in."

Matthew was watching him warily, but he did not press the issue, and for that Lucien was profoundly grateful.

* * *

_28 June 1959_

"Confession is one of the most sacred tenements of our faith," Father Morton said in quavering voice. "We are, all of us, sinners, and we must confess those sins before God, humble and repentant. The confessional booth is not a cafe counter, where prayers are traded for forgiveness as one might trade coins for a loaf of bread. A true confession is not rote, or routine. To truly repent, one must acknowledge the wrong that one has done, seek to make amends, and then strive not to repeat the transgression. To sin willfully, knowingly, again and again, without shame, to use the confessional to wipe the slate clean only to fill it up once more with the same mistakes, is to deny the true purpose of the confession."

Jean shifted uncomfortably in her seat, but as her gaze darted over the assembled congregation she noted that she was not the only one. Today's homily appeared to be hitting a little too close to home for many of her fellow parishioners. That was the purpose of the homily, of course, to provide guidance and lessons for those who most needed to hear it. The priest spoke with the voice of God, and Jean truly believed that sometimes God gave that priest words meant for someone in particular, that sometimes when Father Morton spoke to the church he was speaking straight to her. This was one of those times.

Jean had attended confession regularly from the time of her confirmation. She had not stopped, when she'd taken on a new and salacious profession; she had come to the confessional booth, and knelt, and admitted to her most grievous of sins. Father Morton, the priest who had overseen her confirmation, her marriage, the christening of her babies, had heard her words, and in addition to assigning her a rosary every night for a month urged her almost desperately to retreat from the path she had chosen. _You must not return to that place, my child,_ he had told her, his voice filled with more fire back in those days when he had been younger, hale and healthy. _It is better to be impoverished than to compromise one's soul. The Lord will provide for your material needs, if you trust in him._

She hadn't, though. She hadn't quit her job, and the next time Mrs. Harker offered her a customer she had agreed on the spot. The Lord provided forgiveness, and peace, and hope, but in her experience he did not pay the bills. So she sinned, and sinned, and sinned again, and confessed it all down through the years, the same things, again and again.

_Forgive me father, for I have lain with a man who was not my husband, and taken payment for it._

She'd confessed to that again last Thursday, for the first time in nearly a decade, and she'd felt Father Morton's weary disapproval wafting through the screen though she could not see his face.

 _This is not the first time you have transgressed in this manner,_ he'd said, and Jean had blushed. Confession was supposed to be anonymous, but in a church as small as Sacred Heart she knew Father Morton would recognize most of the penitents by voice alone, and the outlandish nature of her sins surely made her stand out. _But it has been quite some time. I had thought you were beyond this temptation._

Jean had thought so, too, and nearly told him so. There had been a few customers, a few well-paying regulars, Jean kept on after she'd taken over the Lock and Key, but as her sons grew older and she found more confidence in her new role as the madam she'd put an end to it, and gladly. But things were different now - _he_ was different. Lucien wasn't just another rich man with money to burn, another way for Jean to make ends meet and save up for her future. She'd _wanted_ to go to bed with him, and the wanting, without the edge of desperation, made the sin seem somehow more grievous.

And here she sat, listening to Father Morton speak of the folly of repetitive sins, knowing she would see Lucien the following evening.

She shouldn't go through with it, she knew. The power she held over the Lock and Key was tenuous at best; she needed the respect of the customers, and she stood to lose it if they learned she was for sale once more. And she'd violated at least two of her own most sacrosanct rules; she'd let Lucien leave his mark upon her neck, and treasured it, and she'd let him touch her without payment. _Keep feelings out of it,_ that was rule number two, but it was Jean's heart, and not her head, that had let Lucien's hand settle on her hip, that had let her come perilously close to kissing him, that had allowed him to make a second appointment though she knew that what was brewing between them was most definitely _not_ business. A man like Lucien Blake wouldn't be satisfied paying indefinitely; he'd want to claim her, want to take her, make her his, whatever he might try to tell her now, and he could not ever have her. She valued her freedom too greatly, and had learned long ago that there were no happy endings in this business. High society gentlemen didn't rescue their whores and take them home, didn't make wives of the girls they paid and flaunt them through town. To do so would be to ruin their reputations, their livelihoods, and she could see that, even if Lucien would not. She could not ever be his wife, and if she was to be his mistress she had seen too much of the world to let him have her for free. He would not keep her in his fine house, at his beck and call. There would be neither roses nor rings for Jean Beazley.

And yet, still, she had agreed to see him again, and was looking forward to it. Just the thought of his hands on her skin made her shiver, even here, in church. It was the height of folly, it was sure to end in disaster, but though she had the means to stop it she lacked the strength. She had been lonely too long, and the promise of another hour spent in Lucien's arms, even knowing what it might cost her, called to her weary heart with an enticement she could not ignore.

 _What's one more sin,_ she wondered, sitting there in the back of the church, out of everyone's line of sight, a ghost alone with her thoughts. _When I have sinned so much already?_

The shame would come, she knew, and perhaps one day she would turn aside from this life at last, and repent as she had always intended to do. For now, though, there was no way out, and she would have to wait for God's forgiveness. _Don't give up on me,_ she prayed, quietly, while Father Morton's voice washed over her. _Please, help me find my way through._


	21. Chapter 21

_29 June 1959_

Same time, same terms. Same back door, same girl waiting for him there, same knowing grin on her face, same silent trip up the stairs. Same pause outside the same door, same soft knock. And yet, somehow, it all still felt new, to Lucien, still felt fresh and unfamiliar and full of excitement, still felt like the first time. The pub stayed the same, but Lucien's heart seemed to be changing by the minute. He'd arrived on Friday to find Jean cross with him, and by the time they finished their tea she was in his arms, on the cusp of kissing him. It wasn't allowed, he knew, but she'd nearly let him - he was certain she would have let him, would have done it herself if not for the untimely interruption of the red-headed girl - and he didn't quite know what to make of that. That he wanted to kiss her was a foregone conclusion; she was beautiful, and _soft,_ warm and lovely, graceful and sad. She fascinated him, and she made him smile, and he did not deserve her, and there was a letter still unread waiting for him in the surgery at home, and _oh,_ he didn't _know -_

"Good evening, Doctor Blake," Jean said softly as the door swung open, as the girl who'd led him up the stairs vanished into the maze of the Lock and Key. Jean wore the same black robe, and he smiled when he saw her. His heart was aching, his mind was full of questions, his hands were trembling, but Jean was lovely, and the sight of her calmed him, somewhat. Very little about his life made sense, just now, but he knew that he cared for her, knew that he wanted her, knew she'd let him have her, knew they had an hour, at least, to spend together, and he clung to those facts desperately as he stepped inside her suite once more.

It was cooler today than it had been the last time, but Jean's face was the same, soft and free from make-up, and he found he liked her like this, without artifice. Though he knew it was not true he liked to think he was the only one who got to see her this way, and he treasured it, and tried to ignore the sting of jealousy that burned through him every time he was reminded that he was not the sole recipient of her affections.

"Hello, Jean," he said as she closed the door behind him. Last time he had been tongue-tied and spellbound by the sight of her bare legs, but now he knew how it felt to lie between them, to have her lean thighs clenching at his hips, and he was more eager than anxious. The heat of her emptied his head of worries and doubts, offered him an escape from the darkness of the life he'd come to know, and he was very much looking forward to diving once more into that sanctuary, ready to hide from his demons, and think only of her.

Did she feel the same? He wondered as he looked at her. Last time he'd been all but paralyzed, in the beginning, and it had fallen to her to push things along between them. Jean had been the one to take his hand, to wind her arms around her neck; Jean had been the one to pull her nightdress off over her head, had been the one who laid down on the bed, and held out her arms to him. No doubt she had learned over the years how to help a man inexperienced in this sort of business to find his way through it, had learned a dozen tricks to help move things along, and keep the nerves at bay, but he did not not want to think of her that way, did not want to consider that when she touched him she was only following a script, doing only what she must to keep up her end of the bargain. He wanted her to _want_ him, and he rather thought she might, only she wasn't reaching for his hand, now, wasn't leading him back to her bedroom; if anything, she looked a little bit worried, and dread began to build low in his stomach.

"I think we ought to talk, before we begin," she told him, and though no doubt she intended to sound businesslike she just looked scared, and Lucien _hated_ it, hated to think she had cause to fear him, hated to think that the bliss he'd been so eagerly looking forward to might have caused her pain.

"All right," he agreed at once, acquiescing to her, as he always did.

"Here," she said, "let's sit."

He followed her to a well-upholstered sofa and sat down beside her, each of them keeping to their opposite ends, close enough to touch and yet not reaching for one another. This felt different, but not in a good way; this felt like the end to all his hopes. And yet surely, he thought, if she did not intend to take him to bed she would not have worn that short robe, would not have left so very much of her satin-soft skin on display. It was a thin hope, but it was all the hope that he had, and so he latched on to it at once.

"What happened on Friday, in the kitchen," she began, and he could not help the smile that flickered across his face. What happened on Friday, in the kitchen, had been lovely, as far as he was concerned. Sitting there, with Jean between his knees, her hands on his face, her breath warm on his lips, the affection between them bright and full of promise and not purchased, not paid for, not feigned, but true, something they both wanted; his heart had been happy, in that moment, and he was happy now, to remember it, though he could tell by the look on her face that Jean did not feel the same.

"That can't happen again," she continued. It was exactly what he expected her to say; he had crossed a line, he was sure. He'd done it often enough in the past to be familiar with the sensation of courting danger only to be reprimanded. And yet as far as he was concerned he had not been the sole transgressor; when he reached for her, let his hand settle on her hip, he had given her every opportunity to reject him. Even when he pulled her close she could have pulled away; it was Jean who had reached for him, Jean who had leaned in as if she meant to kiss him. Surely that had been her choice, and surely he could not be blamed for it. _Unless,_ he thought, suddenly afraid, _unless she felt she had no choice, unless she thought turning me down would cost her a good customer._ What an unpleasant idea that was.

"There's no reason we can't be friendly with one another," she said, and he watched her as she spoke, her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes refusing to meet his gaze and wondered, not for the first time, what the bloody hell she was thinking. "But if you want to...well. Anything else, that only happens here, during the time you've paid for."

"I understand," he said at once, because he did, and because he knew she needed to hear it. Giving in to temptation would not be rewarded where she was concerned, he could see that now. And he did not want her to think him crass or cruel, did not want her to think he could not be trusted to follow the rules, and cast him out because of it. He wanted, very much, to hold her again, and he would do whatever it took to achieve that goal, including restrain himself. If the price remained one hundred pounds for every hour, every time, he knew he could not enjoy her company indefinitely, but that was a worry for another day. Today he had a wad of notes in his pockets fresh from the bank, and she was sitting beside him, and he wanted her.

"I can't bend the rules for you, Lucien," she said, and strange, but she sounded almost regretful about that. Almost as if she _wanted_ to, but remained steadfast in her convictions. If Lucien had been a less considerate man he might have tried to wheedle her out of those convictions, might have tried to see how far he could push things between them, but he cared for her too deeply to disregard her boundaries.

"I know," he answered.

"I can't kiss you."

_But do you want to, Jean? How different might things be, if you got to have whatever you want?_

"I know."

They were both quiet then, for a moment; she was looking at him, finally, those bright, brilliant eyes of hers watching him, seeming almost to be evaluating him. Did she wonder if he was telling the truth? Had he given her cause to doubt him? Lucien couldn't be sure, any more.

"I know the rules, Jean," he said. "And I will respect them. I won't put you in that position again."

_Even if I want to, even if you want me to._

"Thank you," she said.

Once more Lucien found himself at a loss; it seemed she'd spoken her piece, seemed she was satisfied with his answer. How, then, should they move things forward between them? Should he wait for her to reach for his hand, should he reach for her instead, should he offer her payment now, or would that offend her? He found himself in a quagmire, stuck and struggling, wanting to stick to the rules she'd established but wanting to touch her, too, and not knowing how to do both.

It was Jean who settled it in the end; it had to be her, for he was frozen and lost in his own thoughts. She rose from her corner of the sofa and stood before him, small and beautiful in that soft black robe, and she smiled, reached out to ruffle the edge of his beard with her fingertips, and Lucien smiled, sinking against her hand, relieved.

"Shall we begin, then?" she asked him.

 _Yes,_ he thought, _please._ They'd said what needed saying, and the time had come for them to act, and she was so beautiful, standing there, and as he looked at her an idea occurred to him with all the sudden inspiration of a lightning strike.

"Yes," he said, but he did not rise, did not follow her hands and let her lead him back to the bedroom. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced his wallet, opened it and withdrew the money he'd brought for her, and held it out to her, right there and then. As he did he wondered if she knew what he was asking, knew why he'd done it, what he meant to happen next, but only for a moment; she smiled as she took the money from hands, and he knew that she understood. Jean had a way of making money disappear; coins or notes, no matter the amount, no matter when they came to her, found their way immediately into well-concealed pockets. Now was no different; despite the fact that its purpose was rather obviously more ornamental than functional her robe boasted two pockets, and as she slipped the money into one of them she reached into the other, and produced the damnable hourglass.

She did not speak, but there was a wicked, knowing look in her eyes that made Lucien's heart race. As suddenly as this idea had come to him it must have occurred to Jean long before, for she had thought ahead enough to put that hourglass in her pocket. _I know you,_ her eyes seemed to say as she showed him the hourglass, let him see that all the sand had gathered in the bottom, that he would not lose one single second. _I know you don't like to wait, and I won't make you._

Slowly, very slowly, Jean leaned over him, afforded him the pleasant view of her chest and the soft black lace that hugged her skin as she carefully turned the hourglass over, and set it on the side table. The moment that was done Lucien's hands were on her; he caught hold of her hips and drew her closer, so that she stood between his parted knees, her hands settling on his shoulders as the sand began to slide through the hourglass. For a moment he simply held her, looking up at her, her expression warmer now than it had been before, now that he had assured her he would follow the rules. Only for a moment, though, because the clock was ticking, and he was eager for her.

Never breaking eye contact with her Lucien reached for the tie of her robe, and slowly, teasingly pulled it free, watched her shiver as the robe fell open and revealed the black satin nightdress she wore underneath. Perhaps it was the same one, or perhaps it was new, but he did not spare a moment to examine it; his hands reached for her, traced the curves of her body from her hips back to her bum, and as he touched her she smiled, and shrugged free of the robe. It hit the floor without a sound, and then her hands were on him again, delicate fingers tracing the lines of his neck while his hands kneaded her bum. If he had to pick a favorite feature of Jean's he'd never be able to choose, but that one would fall rather high on the list; he loved the softness of her beneath his hands, and he loved the way she swayed toward him, loved the little sound she made when he squeezed her harder.

And in the next breath he pulled her to him, and she came at once, settling herself upon his lap with her knees either side of his hips.


	22. Chapter 22

_29 June 1959_

Somehow Jean felt she'd never tire of this, his worn, handsome face so close to hers, his broad palms settling against the tender skin of her thighs, her body burning everywhere she touched him. She shouldn't want him, she knew, shouldn't allow herself to imagine what it might be like if these rendezvous between them were not predicated on payment, but just now, just for this hour, he was here with her, and she was enjoying their every interaction immensely.

At the moment she was perched on his lap, his hands gentle on her skin, sliding up her bare thighs, her short nightdress already bunched around her hips, her hands on his broad shoulders. Their faces were close, so close she could feel the warm wash of his breath against her cheek, could feel his chest brushing hers as it rose and fell in time to those unsteady breaths. In an instant she was transported back to the kitchen, standing between his knees, on the verge of kissing him, and to stop herself from violating her own rules so soon after she had attempted to reinforce them Jean leaned in, and pressed her lips to the thick column of his neck while her fingers fumbled blindly with his tie. Same as last time she wore nothing beneath her thin nightdress, and he discovered this fact at once, his hands cradling her bare bum, rocking her gently against him. He groaned as her lips brushed against his skin, the sound of it reverberating through her chest where she touched him, his head thrown back to allow her access as she continued to explore the warmth of him beneath her mouth.

She liked him like this, beneath her, strong, and hard, his body heavy with muscle, powerful enough to take her over completely and yet delivering control of himself into her hands. Control was everything, in this business; Jean's livelihood, her safety, depended on her maintaining control, setting boundaries and ensuring that they were adhered to, letting the customers take only what they'd paid for, and not a penny more. Sometimes it was a fight, with men who wanted more than their fair share; sometimes it was a balancing act, feigning submission to stroke their egos while at the same time keeping them in line. It wasn't like that with Lucien, though; Lucien gave her the lead, looked to her for reassurance before pressing forward, seemed to delight in making her happy. Somewhere deep in her heart Jean knew what it meant, that he should treat her so differently from all the rest, that she should want him so badly, but she pushed those thoughts away in favor of the delights at hand. There would be time later for reflection and recrimination.

The hard clench of his hands against her bum, rocking her into him, sent shivers down her spine; she could already feel him beginning to press up towards her through his trousers, and she ground down against him, eager for more as she pulled his tie free and threw it over the back of the sofa. There was something exciting about it, sitting on his lap half-naked while he was still fully dressed, but some concession would have to be made in order for them to reach their final goal. Not yet, though, not now; she was enjoying the simple pleasure of this too much, the heat of his body beneath her sparking through her nerves like electricity, a promise of more to come.

With his tie discarded she unbuttoned his collar and made to continue her perusal of his neck, but with a sudden shift Lucien freed his hands, and reached for her wrists.

"My turn," he murmured softly, blue eyes burning into hers. Never blinking, never breaking eye contact with her he lifted her right hand to his lips, and pressed a gentle kiss against to the tender skin of her wrist. Jean shivered, and felt his hardness catch against her through his trousers. Satisfied with that reaction Lucien guided her arms behind her back, caught both her wrists in the firm grip of his left hand and held them there as his right returned to her front and slowly, slowly pulled down the strap of her nightdress. Just like that, the control that had made Jean feel so powerful only moments before was transferred from her to him; it was Lucien who directed them now, Lucien who would take his pleasure from her, and with any other man it might have frightened her, to think how easily he had turned the tables on her. With Lucien, though, she did not feel a moment's hesitation, for she trusted him, and knew already that whatever he had in mind would be as enjoyable for her as it was for him.

Caught, trapped in a delicious sort of way she watched him reach for the other strap, watched him slide it down until it hung loose around her bicep, the soft lace that hugged her breasts falling away from her skin. With her hands caught behind her back her chest was thrust towards him, and though she longed to touch him she could not, could only wait with bated breath, rocking idly against his still-hardening cock, watching as he devoured her body with his hungry gaze.

"Beautiful," he breathed, and then he hooked his fingers beneath the lace and pulled it gently down, until it slid beneath her breasts and revealed them to him. Already he had stoked the fires of want within her, and the chill air of the room ghosting over her skin, the thrill that lanced through her as she was bared to him, left her nipples pebbling and eager for his attention. His broad hand trailed lightly over her left breast, cupped her, kneaded her flesh while she watched him, unable and unwilling to do anything else, mesmerized by the sight of his hand on her body. He moved slowly, deliberately, savoring her or teasing her she wasn't sure which, his hand hot as fire against her skin. Was he waiting for some sign, some sound from her, some indication that she wanted him to continue, some evidence of how deeply he was affecting her? Or was he simply enjoying himself; was touching her alone enough to satisfy him for the moment?

"Lucien," she breathed, grinding down against him, wondering if he could feel the damp heat of her through the fabric that still separated them. When she spoke he grinned, and leaned in slowly, pulling her hands back just a little, encouraging her to arch back, to press herself that much closer to his searching mouth. A sigh - of relief, of pleasure, of longing - escaped her as she felt the warm wet of his mouth against her sensitive skin, the rasp of his beard rough and yet enticing. Slowly, painfully slowly, he feathered kisses across her breast, until at last he wrapped his lips around her nipple, his right hand clutching tighter at her as his mouth sucked hard against her, and a shocked, delighted sort of gasp escaped her, and she trembled on his lap, felt the answering call of her own wetness beginning to flood through her. The hard ridge of his cock beneath her offered her some relief, and she worked herself against him with a sudden fervor, chasing the towering, swirling want his mouth and hands had begun to build within her.

His teeth scraped against her nipple, lightly, a test perhaps, to see how close she wanted to walk to the line between pain and pleasure, and she moaned, tried once - half-heartedly - to remove her hands from his grip, found that she could not, and shivered in anticipation. Pleased with her reaction so far he switched his tactics, his lips finding their home on her other breast, his hand rising up to tease the other still wet from his mouth. Knowing how he took pleasure in pleasing her only made Jean want him more, his tender care, his thoughtful approach to their every interaction serving as a reminder that whatever he wanted from her he would surely bring her bliss, too, would not leave her behind in pursuit of his own satisfaction. The yearning low in her belly began to build into a swirling, tightening, tensing sort of need, and though she was enjoying their current position very much she knew it would not be enough, like this; she needed his skin, his hands, needed his attention in other ways, and they only had an hour. Regretfully, she admitted to herself that it was time to move things along.

With his head still buried in her breast she bowed her own, brushed her nose through the fine hair at his temples until she found the curve of his ear with her lips.

"Lucien," she whispered to him then. "Give me my hands."

He did at once, released her without question and lifted his chin to look at her, their cheeks brushing together as they moved, his eyes on her face as if trying to gauge her mood. And Jean liked that, too, liked that even when he held her captive he listened to her, and did not hesitate to do as she asked. Carefully she shrugged her arms free from the straps of her nightdress, pushed it down to bunch around her hips, and then she reached out, caught hold of his shoulder with one hand to steady herself while she leaned back over his knees, and gathered up her discarded robe from the floor. There was something else in the pocket of that robe, something she needed, and though she did not explain herself Lucien watched her silently, his hands on her thighs a reassurance that he would not let her fall.

"There," she said when her task was done, tossing the nightdress away and settling once more firmly upon his lap. In her hand she held the condom she'd brought out for just this purpose, knowing how impatient he was, knowing that once they sat together on the sofa he might not want to leave it. She had been right on that score, and she was glad of it, for so far she felt they'd had rather a lot of fun in this place, and they did not need to waste time dashing off to the bedroom.

"Here?" Lucien asked her as his eyes followed the progress of her hands, tearing open the packet and pulling the condom free.

"If you want to," she answered. She rather thought he did, but she liked that he'd asked, just the same.

" _Christ,_ yes," he said, and she laughed, and reached for his belt.

He swallowed hard; she watched the rise and fall of his Adam's apple, felt his hands tighten against her thighs. Very carefully she scooted back onto his knees, and pulled his belt free from his trousers, teasing him as he had done to her. It made a soft _clink_ as the buckle of his belt hit the ground, but Jean did not hear it over the pounding of her heart in her chest. Once more he was sitting back, watching her, waiting for her, letting her do as she wished, and she liked the thought of his eyes on her while she touched him.

"Wait," he said when her fingers found the button of his trousers.

Jean stopped at once, curious, but he only grinned and leaned towards her, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it behind the sofa to join his tie. "That's better," he said when it was done, and he looked so sweet, so happy to be there with her, that she very nearly gave in and kissed him right there.

"Good," she told him, reaching once more for his button. There was more she could have said; she could have called a halt right then and stripped him out of all his clothes, but she was restless, and eager for what came next, and worried about the minutes they'd already spent, and how few they had left. Now was not the time for pausing, for breaking their momentum; she wanted him, and she would have him, now.


	23. Chapter 23

_29 June 1959_

The blood pounded in Lucien's ears, his heartbeat wild and insatiable, his entire being fixed on _her_ , this goddess perched on his lap, that black nightdress bunched around her hips leaving her skin bare and beautiful. There was something unrestrained about her, when they fell together like this, something uninhibited, joyful, _free_ that called to his heart, reminded him what it was, to simply live in the moment, unburdened by ghosts, unhaunted by memories. Jean seemed to find all the best parts of his heart, seemed to coax him out of the shadows with her gentle hands, and in his own way he loved her for it. When he'd first returned to Ballarat he'd found it spectral and grim, had not thought to find relief in this place, or joy. Even now the past seemed to reach for him with ghastly pale hands full of grief, but here in this place, with her, he did not feel himself besieged, did not feel the weight of his guilt pressing at her shoulders. In this place he forgot, and found himself in the forgetting.

Slowly, teasingly slowly she pulled down the zip of his trousers, fingertips ghosting over his hardness through his trunks, and Lucien shuddered at even that gentle contact, eager and hungry for her. Her smile was wicked, her dark hair tumbling softly all around her face as reached through the slit at the front of his trunks and finally, mercifully pulled his aching cock free. This was sight he'd never tire of seeing, he thought, Jean above him, beautiful, glorious, her hands on him, her touch a blessing, a benediction found in the most unlikely of places. There was no fear in her, no hesitation, no squeamishness; she did not shy away from him, did wait for him to overpower her but joined him in this momentary madness. With one hand she held the condom still and with the other she stroked him tenderly, bowed her head so that their cheeks brushed together as both of them fixed their gaze on her hand, his cock hard as marble in her grip, both of them savoring this moment, this precursor to pleasure. They were pressed for time and yet neither of them hurried, did not rush the unfolding of affection between them, only followed where it led, content to be together.

"I want you, Jean," Lucien whispered, turning his head so that his lips could land at the corner of her mouth, not kissing her for he understood the rules very well, and yet drawing as close to that line between them as he dared, wanting more, wanting all of her. He _wanted_ her, not just for this base pleasure but for everything she was, her clever wit, her gentle heart, the peace she brought to him, and as he spoke he wondered if she knew it, how completely that want had encompassed him. She did not admonish him, or shy away from his touch, but drew in a sharp breath, and then began to move, slowly sliding the condom down over him, preparing them both for what came next.

"So have me, then," she answered as her hands worked over him, and the moment her fist and the condom reached the base of his shaft Lucien reached for her hips, urging her to rise above him, his body tight and tense with longing for her. The nightdress was still hung loosely around her waist but Lucien slid his hands beneath it, fingers curling against soft, warm skin, and Jean lifted herself up, one hand still wrapped around him, holding him steady as she teased them both with the brush of his cock against her tender folds, hellfire hot and calling to him sweet as a siren. This was what he'd wanted, when he arranged to see her again; Jean, bare and beautiful, sweat slicked skin sliding beneath his hands, all thoughts forgotten, the chaos of his mind quieted by the serenity of her, the bliss they both knew was waiting for them an enticement so enchanting they could do nothing save chase after it, together.

When she had been still too long Lucien's hips bucked eagerly up towards her, his self-control slipping, and Jean just smiled, let her lips land against his temple once, briefly, before she began to lower herself atop him, shivering in his grip as her body stretched to make room for him, as both of them groaned, toppling already towards the edge of this precipice. Lucien did not slam her down against him, did not hold her still and rut up into her, only tightened the grip of his hands against her hips and let her lead them both, his eyes fixed on the sight of her soft breasts swaying as she moved, the muscles of her belly rippling, her body arching towards him reflexively. Bit by bit she took him in, sank down for a moment before rising again, falling further, rising again, falling still further, her hips rocking all the while, lighting him up. In the confines of his clothes Lucien's blood boiled, and he wondered for a moment how it must feel for her, the scrape of the fabric against her skin; was the friction they generated between them enough to help her reach her peak, or would there be more she needed besides?

Onward she moved, never ceasing, and the wet slide of her against him, the trembling, clenching heat of her threatened to undo him utterly. But then, oh, then with one powerful thrust of her hips she took him in completely, settled against him, gasping, her hands reaching for his neck, trailing against his skin as she shivered in his embrace. There was a wholeness, a rightness, to being with her like this, as close as two people could be, and Lucien could not stop himself from reaching for her. Gently he ran his hands over her hair, brushed it back from her face so that he could see the brilliance of her ocean-dark eyes, and then he caught her face in his hands, held her close while he rocked gently up against her, watching the play of pleasure across her face, and she gasped, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Until now he had been content to allow Jean to set the pace between them but there was a furious need building low in his belly and she had done so much for him already, and so he took hold of the moment himself, joining her in her efforts.

 _Christ,_ but he wanted to kiss her. Holding her close like this, devouring her body with his hungry gaze, their hearts pounding in time to one another, her tender heat cradling him close and tight; there was a beauty in it, and he wanted to tell her, to show her how completely she owned him, how utterly she had overwhelmed him, how nothing in his life had ever moved him quite the way she did. He wanted to tear down every barrier between them, wanted to know, for a certainty, that she felt as he did, that she wanted more from him than payment, than an endless stream of encounters limited to one single hour and not a second more.

"Lucien," Jean whispered, beginning to rock against him, shaking off whatever momentary paralysis had held her still, and then it began between them in earnest. Her hands found his shoulders, clutching at his shirt for support as she lifted herself up and pressed back down against him, harder and faster each time. Jean had found her rhythm, the breath leaving her lips in needy little gasps, and Lucien tried to match it, his hands abandoning her face in favor of clutching at her breasts, trying to meet her thrust for thrust. The movement of their bodies spiraled out of his control, no longer dictated by his conscious mind but instead acting on instinct, seeking more, more, _more._ Perhaps Jean felt the same; the sounds leaving her lips were nearly enough to finish him off right there, and she rocked against him, feverish, beautiful.

Desire was building in him, and he knew he could not hold himself back; he had tried, last time, for her sake, to make it last, to bring her to her peak first, not to pop off too soon and leave himself embarrassed and her unsatisfied, but he possessed no such control today. This was wildfire, abandon, desperation making him reckless. His heart was racing, and the continued, feverish rush of her body was too great a temptation for him to resist. But he wanted her to feel it, too, did not want to leave her behind, lingering and disappointed, and so he reached between them, fingers brushing through sparse curls, groaned aloud when he felt his own cock, wet with her want, as he slid back into her. Intoxicated by that sensation he searched until he found the little bundle of nerves at her center and began to work against her mercilessly, his hips snapping up harder, and above him Jean cried out, threw her head back on her shoulders and chased her own pleasure, and his in the bargain. The need raged between them, outside of their control, both of them helpless to resist it, unable to do anything but thrust and groan and grind together, and then at last it grew too much to bear. Jean slammed down against him, hard, and Lucien braced his left hand on the sofa, pounded up into her while his right continued its work, and her tender sex clenched hard around him, and she rocked her hips, pressed herself into him everywhere they touched, and finally, finally snapped.

With a cry of his name Jean collapsed against him, clung to him, trembling, and his hips stuttered against her, until at last he, too, was overcome, falling apart inside her, groaning, blissful, twitching, mesmerized by her. They stayed like that for a few minutes at least, Jean's face buried in the crook of his neck, his hands ghosting over the swell of her bum, both of them breathless, electrified, wringing every last ounce of pleasure they could from their current position, wrapped around one another, Lucien's cock still buried inside her. He might have stayed like that all day, might have tried to catch his breath, to take her again right there on the sofa, were it not for the damnable hourglass.

With a sigh he lifted his head, and turned to check their progress. It seemed to him that perhaps half the sand remained in the top of the hourglass, and that was a blessing. While he tried to gauge it Jean, too, turned to look, and then she smiled, and reached for him, her thumb tracing the neat line of his beard across his cheek, the touch gentle and fond.

"You still have half an hour at least," she told him softly, and there was something so sweet, so encouraging about her tone that it filled him with hope.

"Good, then," he told her. "I'm not finished with you."

Jean laughed, but to prove his point Lucien once more caught hold of her bum, and with a herculean effort he lifted them both, rose to stand on his feet with his arms full of Jean. She laughed again, softly, relieved, perhaps, even as his cock slipped out of her, and he knew then that they must have looked ridiculous, the pair of them, sweaty and flushed, Jean's nightdress in a shambles around her hips, Lucien still fully dressed save for the mess of his cock hanging out of his trousers, but there was no one there to see, and no reason to care in any case. And so he turned, then, with his arms full of Jean, and marched them both resolutely into her bedroom.


	24. Chapter 24

_29 June 1959_

As he marched purposefully from the parlor into her bedroom Jean clung to him, her body still light and loose from the pleasure he had so recently brought to her, her heart overwhelmed by the steady, easy way he carried her, as if she weighed nothing at all, as if it cost him no effort to hold her, his shoulders broad enough, strong enough, to carry them both without faltering. With her arms around his neck, her legs locked tight around his hips, she held on to his powerful frame, felt the solid hardness of him in her embrace, and found peace in his strength. They had time enough, yet, time to enjoy one another, time to pretend that nothing and no one existed outside of themselves, her bedroom a sanctuary where they were alone, and safe, and happy, and Jean meant to wring every last ounce of pleasure she could from the minutes that remained to them.

Carefully, gently Lucien bent at her bedside, and let her tumble from his arms to land safely atop her clean sheets, smiling up at him. What a picture he made, still wearing his shirt and trousers, his normally neat hair mussed from her wandering hands, his answering smile warm, and tender, and beautiful. Jean took advantage of the moment to shimmy out of her nightdress, surplus to requirements now, and leaned back against the pillows, watching him as he drunk his fill of her. Time had done its work on Jean, and though she knew she was still possessed of an enviable figure it nonetheless surprised her how much Lucien seemed to enjoy what he saw when he looked at her, the way he had ignored every pretty young girl in the pub and set his sights on Jean, and Jean alone. The way he seemed to want _her,_ and not some nice lady of good repute who could be bought for no more than the price of a dinner, who would let him enjoy himself for longer than one hour at a time. Maybe the lack of commitment in their arrangement pleased him, but Jean rather thought he had not chosen her because this was _easier;_ when he looked at her that way, she could almost believe that he wanted _her_ , truly.

"Come here, Lucien," she said, holding her arms out to him. They only had about half an hour left - _oh, no,_ Jean thought, suddenly distressed as she realized she'd left the hourglass sitting in the parlor. It would take no more than a minute to go and fetch it, but Lucien had already knelt between her parted thighs, his hands already reaching for her breasts, and she did not want to stop him, to call a halt to proceedings when the brush of his hands against her skin was already reigniting the fire of her desire for him.

"You're overdressed," she murmured instead, the breath catching in her throat as his hands began to work their magic, kneading her gently, methodically, fingertips brushing against her skin in a way that left her shivering.

"What shall we do about that?" Lucien asked her gently, teasingly, and so she grinned, and reached for his shirt buttons. He'd already shucked his shoes before he'd settled atop her, and his tie and jacket were long since discarded. His fingers plucked at her nipples as her own plucked at his buttons, and she sighed and pressed herself into his hands, her heart beginning to pound. It took no more than a moment, for her to have the shirt unbuttoned, and then he was rising up on his knees, taking his hands away from her just long enough to pull the shirt up and off him.

"This, too," she told him, tugging at his vest, and he grinned and tugged that off as well, and she could not help but reach for him, then, trailing her hands against the broad expanse of his bare chest, his tan skin soft beneath the pads of her fingers. It was not the first time she'd seen him like this, but the sight of his powerful body stripped out of his fine suit was still enough to leave her breathless; it wasn't fair, she thought, that he should be so handsome, that she should want him so much.

"Anything else?" he asked her, his voice low and gravelly, his hands reaching for hers, tracing the backs of her hands with his fingertips.

"These," she said, letting her hands slide down his chest until they could curl around the waistband of his unfastened trousers. Lucien grinned, pleased with her answer no doubt, and rolled onto his back beside her, lifting his hips and sliding out of trousers and trunks both. While he did Jean turned onto her side, propped herself up on her elbow, and watched him. Watched the easy way he moved, the rippling of his muscles, hard beneath his skin, and waited for him to catch up with her, already craving the delicious slide of his skin on hers.

Once Lucien's clothes hit the floor Jean made to roll on top of him, but he stopped her, caught her hips in his hands and turned, pulled her smoothly beneath him. Resting on his forearms, planted on the pillows by the bed, he reached for her, brushed the hair back from her face with his broad hands, her thighs rising up to make room for his body to rest against her. With a sigh they settled into place, chests rising and falling in time to one another, the heavy corded muscles of his arms still holding him effortlessly in place above her, his spent cock nestled against her tender folds, still glossy with her need of him; in the next moment, however, it occurred to her that he was still wearing the condom, and she reached for him then, laughing.

"I don't think we need this anymore," she said, and pulled it gently off him, making a mess of them both in the process and hardly caring. There was a little bin by the side of the bed for just this purpose, and so she tossed it thoughtlessly away, and let her hand run over him, knowing that she would likely be unable to rouse him for a second time, and yet wanting to touching him anyway, just to see his eyes close in bliss while she did. For a moment she touched him, teased the backs of his calves with her toes and felt him shudder, and then she reached for his left hand, and drew it towards her.

Lucien was still wearing his watch, and it was there Jean looked now. She didn't know exactly how much time they had left, and so she decided to alot him thirty minutes, starting now, using his watch to take note of the time.

"What's the verdict?" Lucien asked carefully, his hips rocking idly into the grip of the hand that still held him fast.

"You have thirty minutes, Doctor Blake," Jean told him archly. "How would you like to spend it?"

His eyes darkened with salacious intent, and the breath caught in Jean's lungs as she looked at him, wondering what course he might choose to take, wondering what she had unleashed, in allowing him to choose.

"Like this," he breathed, and then he bowed his head, let his lips land against her collarbone. At the brush of his beard against her skin Jean sighed, and let her hands drift through his hair while he kissed her, his mouth moving steadily, methodically as if he meant to map every inch of her. The warm, steady weight of him above her was a comfort, and Jean did not speak again, did not try to direct him or hurry him or urge him in any one direction, only let him do as he wished, enjoying, very much, the way he lavished his attentions upon her.

He covered her chest in kisses, his lips marking each and every one of the freckles that dotted her skin, and then he moved lower, and the timbre of her sighs deepened, to feel those lips ghosting once more across her breasts. When she shifted her hips she could feel him, pressed against her center, and she rocked gently against him, felt the need beginning to swell within her, his lips and the press of his body against her over-sensitive flesh sweet and torturous, at the same time. She let her nails scrape against his scalp, and was rewarded with the edge of his teeth dragging over her skin, and she shivered, and ground more firmly against him, and yet still she did not speak, for she did not need to; he knew already what she wanted, and was moving, giving it to her. Slowly, so slowly his mouth traveled down over her belly, pausing to bless each of her hips with a kiss in turn, resting his weight on his knees to free his hands, to touch her. He trailed those hands over her sides, down to her thighs, fingers pressing into tender flesh, massaging her tense muscles gently, encouraging her to relax against him.

Once before he had done this for her, and so Jean was not entirely shocked when his mouth took up residence between her thighs. With a gentle gasp she canted her hips towards him, and let him have her, all of her, let him drink his fill of her. That clever tongue of his had her mewling in a moment, and her hands scrabbled across his shoulders, fingertips stuttering against the thick ropes of scars that scored his flesh, even there. Lucien didn't seem to mind, and so she held on to him there, his skin warm beneath her palms as his tongue snaked inside her and a sudden, delighted cry slipped past her lips. Jean felt his smile in the brush of his beard against her skin, but then he was working over her in earnest, and rational thought deserted her. There was only him, his lips and tongue wet with her, lighting her up with need while two of his thick fingers slipped into her welcoming heat, thrust and curled against her while the coil of her desire wound tighter and tighter. She'd given him thirty minutes to spend however he wished, and he chose to spend them there, bringing her to bliss with his mouth, and his hands, and when she reached the peak and tumbled from it he did not stop, only pressed her onward to another release with all his considerable skill.

In the aftermath of her second release he showed no signs of stopping, and it seemed to Jean that he was bound to keep up his efforts, determined to see just how high he could bring her, how many times he could shatter her. Perhaps it was a point of pride with him, or perhaps he enjoyed seeing her shivering, shaking, flushed and panting, but as much as Jean was enjoying herself, as much as she was enjoying the slide of his fingers inside her body, the wet press of his lips against her, she remembered what he did not, that their time was limited, and so she reached once more for his left hand, and Lucien stopped at once.

"Let me see," she gasped at him, dizzy from pleasure. Jean felt as if she'd never stop shaking; that man and his hands would be the end of her, she was certain.

"Five minutes left," she told him as she studied his watch, and she could not keep the disappointment from her voice when she spoke. Only five minutes left; the time had passed so quickly, while they lost themselves in one another, and she hated it, the endless ticking of the clock, the rules that ordered her life and required that she take note of it.

Lucien frowned, but did not protest; slowly he drew his right hand out from between her legs, painting her thigh with her own wetness, but before he could leave her entirely Jean reached for him, encircled him with her arms and drew him down towards her. With a sigh Lucien went with her, rested his head on her breast while Jean held him close. One hand drifted idly through his hair, comforting, gentle, and with the other she traced the scars on his back, wondering, not for the first time, where they had come from, what had caused them, whether they pained him still. In her embrace he was soft, relaxed, finally still and unmoving in a way she hardly ever saw him, and she wondered if he drew comfort from her touch, as much as she did from touching him, wondered what secrets he carried, and whether she could ever hope to know them all.


	25. Chapter 25

_29 June 1959_

Jean lay flat on her belly, sprawled naked and glorious across her mussed sheets, watching him with a fond expression on her face as Lucien stuffed himself back into his trousers, and went searching for his vest and shirt. The time had gotten away from him; he'd forgotten, for a least a little while, that the clock even existed, let alone that its inexorable ticking was pushing him ever closer to the moment when he would inevitably have to leave Jean behind, and go out into the night alone. Caught in the pleasant trap of her soft thighs he had lost himself completely, but though he was certain Jean had enjoyed herself immensely _she_ had not forgotten. It was Jean who brought them back down to reality with a resounding crash, but she had held him gently, after, her hands gentle on skin.

"What do you think, Mrs. Beazley?" Lucien asked her, having finished buttoning his shirt, holding his arms out and inviting her inspection. His shirttails were untucked and his socks were balled up in his trouser pocket, and he could feel his hair sticking up in all directions, set free from its restraints by Jean's wandering hands.

"You'll do, Doctor Blake," she declared winsomely, "though I think you've misplaced your shoes."

"Indeed I have," he answered, laughing, returning to the end of the bed and sliding his bare feet into his shoes.

"I'll walk you out," she said, and then she was rolling out of bed, padding silently across the room while Lucien watched her, slack-jawed and aching. That swing to her hips was more pronounced somehow, now that she was naked and soft, her feet bare on the carpet, and the vision of her, comfortable in her own skin, comfortable with him watching her, her breasts, her bum, the soft skin of her belly revealed to his hungry gaze was all the more enchanting for the unselfconscious way she carried herself. He was not allowed to love her, but he found that he did, just the same.

Much as he might like to he knew he could not linger, and so he sighed and roused himself, giving his head a shake as if that would be sufficient to clear the maudlin thoughts that had begun to plague him the moment he left her bed. She was beautiful, and he had to leave her; he was lonesome, and there was no one and nothing waiting at home for him save for a letter he did not want to read bearing tidings he did not wish to hear. That particular calamity could keep for another night, he told himself; it would be better to read it in the daylight, for terrible thoughts burrowed through his brain in the darkness, and night was fast approaching in the chill world beyond Jean's warm bedroom.

Lucien made his way out into the parlor, and found Jean in the act of slipping her black robe once more around her shoulders, her hands reaching into the pockets as if on reflex, checking that the notes he'd given her were still there. Perhaps she had not meant for him to see it; perhaps it would have been better if he hadn't, if he had not witnessed that small action, that nefarious reminder that whatever Lucien wanted from her could not be had without payment. What funds he had would not seem him through indefinitely, not with Mrs. Beazley burning through them at such a prodigious rate, but his heart was weak with wanting her, his soul weary from lonesomeness, and like a dying man he would spend every last penny he had on the one cure he'd found for his sorrows; she owned him completely, already.

"Here," she said as she took note of his arrival in the parlor, belting her robe tightly around her waist and stepping nimbly behind the sofa. "Let's get you sorted."

In silence Lucien approached her, and stood still before her as she reached for him, draped his tie loosely round his neck and then set his hat on his head at a jaunty angle. Her good mood cheered him, somewhat, and he smiled at her fondly, thinking how wonderful she was. She returned that smile with grace, and then bent and neatly scooped up his jacket. Perhaps she meant to put that on him as well; perhaps she meant to lift herself up onto her toes, meant to let her hands brush against his shoulders, meant to let her chest rest against his own, just for a moment, before their time together well and truly ended, but Lucien would not ever know for as she picked his jacket up off the floor a somewhat crumpled envelope tumbled out of the inside pocket.

For a moment they both stared at it, hardly daring to breathe, though for different reasons. Lucien's heart was sinking in his chest, for he had forgotten, before this moment, that he still carried it with him. Before now he'd thought he must have left it at home, but there it lay, a portent of doom glowering at him from beside Jean's red-painted toes. Jean's hesitation was no doubt born of her intuition; Lucien was certain she could feel the way his mood had shifted, the way his whole body tensed in terror. Yet she stood frozen for only the space of a few heartbeats before she was moving, draping his jacket over the back of the sofa and picking up the letter, turning it over in her hands.

"Are you not in the habit of reading your mail, Doctor Blake?" she asked as she passed the letter to him.

"Not when it brings bad news, no," he told her. With the letter in one hand he reached for his jacket with the other, pulling it on before stuffing the letter back in the pocket it had so recently vacated. Any trace of cheerfulness left by Jean's gentle smile had well and truly left him; there was a chasm in his chest, a vast aching well of loneliness and grief, and he felt himself hurtling into it, thrown out into the abyss.

"Lucien," Jean said his name softly, hesitantly, reaching out and resting her hand on his forearm. "You can talk to me about it, you know. If you want to."

Did he want to? Lucien wasn't sure. He hadn't shared this with anyone, not even with Matthew, but in that moment he found that he wanted, very much, to talk to a friend. And had they not been friends, before anything else? Had it not been Jean's friendship that first drew him to her, her companionship the reason he had sought her out in the pub, night after night? Their hour was through and his bill was paid, but she was not pushing him out the door, or asking for more coin. She had offered to hear him, earnestly and without agenda, and this burden had grown too heavy for him to bear it alone.

"I told you once that I have a daughter. Li."

Jean frowned. "Yes," she said. "You said you didn't know where she is."

"I didn't. I don't. I...she...before the war, I was a soldier. My family lived in Singapore. My wife and my daughter and I."

"Oh, Lucien," Jean sighed heavily, her eyes widening as if understanding already. Like an old soldier she had heard the words _the war,_ and sorrow had clouded over her beautiful face, the memories of battles fought long before resurfacing at once. Her hand remained steady on his arm, and Lucien reached out, covered that hand with his own, held her there, anchored by her touch while he found himself staring at his shoes, unable to look her in the eye.

"We knew the Japanese were coming. We knew they were going to take the city. I couldn't leave, but I put my girls on a boat to China. My wife had family in Hong Kong, and I thought they'd be safe there."

_But they weren't. You knew there was a risk, you knew Ballarat would be the safer option, but you were too proud to ask for your father's help, and your pride killed your family._

"Not long after they left, the Japanese bombed Hong Kong. I don't know if their boat made it there before that, and I couldn't look for them, because the Japs bombed Singapore the same day. We were under constant attack for two months before the city fell, and I was taken prisoner."

Lucien's tongue felt heavy in his mouth, each word a struggle, but he had come this far, and he knew he needed to see his tale through to the end, and Jean was not interrupting him, only standing still and silent, waiting.

"I was held in that camp for three years. By the time we were freed, the trail had gone cold. Too many people were missing, and China was in civil war. Records in Hong Kong were hard to come by. I never stopped looking, never gave up hope."

That wasn't entirely true; hope had deserted him long before now. He had continued in his grim quest for answers, not because he held out hope that one day he might be reunited with his family, but because he felt that he must, because he knew it was his duty, because he believed that one day he might finally discover the truth. Only now that the truth was within his grasp he found he did not want it; he feared it with everything he had.

"And that letter?" Jean prompted him, not unkindly, when he had been quiet too long.

"From a private investigator I hired. I'm...I'm afraid it might be the last one."

_I'm afraid my search is at an end, and I don't know who I am without it, and I fear what I might become._

"But you don't know for certain." It wasn't a question.

At last Lucien looked up at her, and found Jean watching him with eyes soft and sad. It was not pity she showed him now; if anything, he rather got the sense that she understood him.

"When my Christopher died," she said slowly, and a lump formed in the back of his throat as he remembered her own sorry tale, the husband she had lost, the beautiful life that had been shattered at his death. "It took them six months to tell me. Six months with no letters, no word. I didn't know where he was, or what had happened. All I could do was wait. And then one day, two soldiers turned up at my door." As she spoke Jean turned her hand over beneath his, laced their fingers together and held on to him tightly. "You've been waiting a lot longer than I did, Lucien, but...you need to know what that letter says. You can't put it off forever."

In that moment he wanted to ask her how it had felt, when she finally learned the truth. He wanted to ask if it had helped her, to know for a certainty that her husband was gone, wanted to ask if losing hope was better than clinging to it indefinitely. He wanted to burn the letter, wanted to turn it over to her and ask her to read it for him, to take this burden from him. He wanted to weep; he wanted to hold her. Instead he only smiled, sadly, and clung to her hand.

"I know," he said heavily. "I know. And I will. Not tonight, but...soon."

"You'll tell me, when you know?"

"Do you really want to know?"

Could it be, he wondered, that she cared for him as she did for her, that his happiness meant as much to her as her happiness meant to him? Was this friendship she was showing him now, and was it not worth more than anything else he'd ever purchased? And would he tell her, when he knew? Would he even want to?

"This is about your family, Lucien," she said softly. "Nothing is more important than family. And yes, I want to know. I want to know that you're all right."

 _Nothing is more important than family._ An odd sentiment coming from a madam, perhaps, but Jean had children of her own, sons she clearly treasured, and she looked after her girls as if they were her own flesh and blood. Jean knew what it was, to have a family and to lose it. Jean understood the nature of this grief, and, Lucien realized then, in the understanding of it she understood _him._ Yes, he would tell her when the time came; in all the world she was the one person he felt he could share this truth with, however strange such a thought might be.

"All right," he agreed, softly, still holding her hand. "All right."


	26. Chapter 26

_29 June 1959_

Maureen had offered to watch the pub all evening, and for once Jean was resolved to take her up on it. The gentle sound of whispered conversations, the clink of a teacup against its saucer, Maureen's accusing eyes and the parade of customers making their way up the stairs; none of it held any appeal for Jean, at present. What she wanted was quiet, and a moment to herself, a chance to catch her breath and consider all that she had learned.

That Lucien Blake had been a soldier was not surprising; given his age and the scars upon his back Jean had worked that much out for herself already. That he'd married and had a child of his own was not surprising either, for he had spoken of his daughter to her, once, and Jean had pondered what little she knew of the girl, and wondered what it meant, that Lucien did not know where she was. The scope of his grief, the depth of his suffering, that _had_ surprised her, and her heart was heavy, full of sorrow on his behalf, as if the touch of her hand upon his arm had transferred some of his pain from his soul to hers. It was unthinkable, the horror he had suffered. Jean had fought her war in the dirt and prosaic isolation of Ballarat, letters from the bank cutting her like knives, but there had been no bullets, no bombs, no horrible drumbeat of approaching enemy boots. Her home had been invaded by sorrow, not by soldiers. Lucien, though; Lucien had been a husband, a father, had built a home and a life in Singapore he must have treasured, given how his voice cracked when he spoke of it now, and his home had become a war zone.

How terrified must he have been, she wondered, knowing what calamity was coming for his family? How painful must it have been, to choose to send them away? Had he walked into his child's bedroom, and watched her sleeping, peaceful and secure for the moment, and wept to think of the danger that surrounded them? Did his wife weep, when she boarded the boat and left him behind? Jean had wept, when Christopher left her, had put Jack down for his nap and felt her knees go weak with grief, had sunk to the floor beside his little bed and buried her face in her hands. But she still had her children, her home to cling to; Lucien had been utterly alone, when the bombs came for him.

And he had been held captive; Jean remembered very well the stories from the war, the things the Japanese did to those who fell into their clutches. She remembered the Burma railroad, the tale of those brave lads who had led an uprising in Selarang and been butchered for it. Lucien had been there when it happened; had he been among their number? How many friends had he lost to chaos and grief? Had he starved, had he fallen ill? The marks upon his back spoke so eloquently of pain; she had wondered, before now, if perhaps it had been a grenade, or a bomb that rent his skin, but she rather thought she knew better, now. Those marks had been left by a whip, or a cane, scored into his flesh not by some mechanical beast but by another man, full of anger and hate. She couldn't imagine how Lucien dragged himself out of bed each morning, when he carried such memories with him everywhere he went, but perhaps it was love of his family that compelled him, that desperate hope that one day they might be reunited.

Jean wandered through her rooms, washed her face, tidied her bed, prepared herself for sleep with her thoughts consumed by him. Lucien was so kind, so gentle with those less fortunate than himself, so eager to help, and knowing that he retained those qualities despite the horror he had endured only made her love him more, only made her want to reach out, and hold him close, to keep him safe in her arms. She wanted to banish the memory of pain from his body, wanted to comfort him and make him whole, but in her heart she knew it was not her place to offer him such peace. She was not his wife, not the woman who'd borne his child, not the woman his heart still ached for, after all this time, and she could not ever be.

As she laid down, rested her head against her pillows with the ghostly sensation of Lucien's hands still lingering on her thighs, she thought about that letter, and what news it might bring him. Lucien seemed convinced it contained grim tidings; he had clearly been carrying it for some time, given how crumpled the envelope was. Carrying it, and yet not reading it, for when he finally did, if he learned for once and for all that his family was dead, all his hope would be lost. Jean had felt that way, once, had spent each day with one eye on the long winding drive that led from the road to her little house, praying for word of her husband, begging God to send her a letter, or Christopher himself, but not two grim-faced soldiers in a dark car. Each day that passed without word was a blessing and a blow, all at once; she did not know what had become of him, but no one had told her he was dead, and so Christopher lived on, in her mind, in her prayers, in her heart. That period of waiting had ended in grief for Jean, and she prayed now that Lucien would not meet with such a fate.

If the letter told him that his wife and child still lived she would lose him, she knew, and while she would grieve for that loss her mother's heart prayed, for Lucien's sake, that they were well. He deserved such happiness, she thought, deserved such joy after suffering for so long. Though Jean cared for him, with everything she had, though she wanted him, though she wished that things were different, she knew she could not give him what he sought. She could not be his wife, could not give him a home, could not even kiss him, could not hold him whenever she wanted to.

 _He deserves better,_ she thought. _He deserves more. Please, God, please let them be living, for his sake._

The day would come, one way or another, when Jean would have to let him go, and she prayed it would be happiness that parted them, rather than grief.

* * *

 _Not tonight,_ Lucien told himself as he stepped into his house, as he locked the door behind him and hung his hat upon its accustomed peg.

_Not in the darkness._

Dark thoughts bred in darkness; there had been a particularly terrible night in China, after the war, when Lucien had stood on a foot bridge high above a racing river with a bottle of something clear and vile in his hand, staring down at the murky water below. It was the thought of Mei Lin's gentle hands that drove him there, and it was the thought of the little blue ribbon tied in Li's hair that pulled him back. Unable to face the guilt of ending his life himself he had signed up for more dangerous missions than he could count, and each time he had been fearless, had stepped into gunfire and devastation with a grim determination, but still, he lived. He lived for them, he thought, but if he read that letter now, in the darkness, and found that they were gone, he was not certain he could carry on.

 _You could live for Jean,_ he told himself as he walked into his bedroom, began undressing in the darkness. _You could do that, for her._ Would it break her heart, he wondered, if he never came to visit her again? Would she weep for him? Would she attend his funeral, as she had attended his father's, stand in the back out of everyone's line of sight and say her own private goodbyes? _She deserves better than that,_ he thought. Jean had suffered enough. That night in China he had been certain no one would mourn for him, but he rather thought Jean would, now. And Matthew, too, damn him. Matthew was a good friend, and Lucien did not want to leave him without a police surgeon, without a place to go for a warm meal on a Saturday night.

_You need to know what that letter says. You can't put it off forever._

He could hear her voice, clear as a bell, even now in the black silence of his lonely bedroom. She was right of course, his clever Jean. He could not stave off this calamity indefinitely, and waiting would not change the words written upon that page. The sun would rise tomorrow, and bring with it a host of responsibilities and occupations and minor distractions, and Lucien knew himself well enough to admit he was unlikely to take a moment to read that letter until his working day was done. The circumstances would be no different tomorrow than they were right now, only now he could hear Jean's voice echoing in his mind, fancied he could still taste her on his lips, and he drew some strength from her, from the memory of how she'd swayed towards him that day in her kitchen, her lips parted, her eyes hooded, her hands on his face. He did not have the strength to face this horror alone, but for now, just for this moment, Jean was with him.

"Bugger it," he said aloud, and then he was striding furious and full of purpose out of his bedroom. With a tight flick of his wrist he turned on the light in the hall, and then reached for the letter he'd abandoned on the side table, tearing through the envelope at once.

Though Lucien was still adept at reading Mandarin Mr. Kim was based in Hong Kong, and always wrote to him in English. The words on those pages were written in a neat hand, and Lucien devoured them hungrily, his heart racing in his chest.

_Dear Doctor Blake,_

_I am glad to say that I at last have some good news to give to you. I have learned that your Li was among several children rescued from a passenger ship damaged in the battle of Hong Kong. I found her name in a record of abandoned children, and learned that she was kept here for some months before the authorities determined that no one was coming for her, and she was sent to an orphanage in Shanghai. I have traveled there, and met with her, and can assure you that she is alive, and well._

A choked, ragged sob tore its way out of Lucien's chest and he collapsed at once on the floor, no longer able to hold himself upright. His Li, alive and well; he could think of no greater blessing, and tears coursed down his cheeks while his shoulders shook, his whole body convulsing with a wild, terrible joy. Mr. Kim was a thorough-going professional, and had seen Li with his own eyes; _Li! Alive!_ Lucien could hardly breathe through his relief. If Mr. Kim had found her, seen her, then Lucien could as well, could go to his child, and hold her, could look into her eyes, beg for her forgiveness, hear her story. There was nothing he wanted more, and for a time he simply wept, overcome.

The letter was not finished, however, and so eventually Lucien brought himself under control, and read on.

_I have enclosed her address, and a photograph she sent to you. If you will make arrangements to meet me in my office in Hong Kong, I can take you to her. Travel in China is tricky, just now, but with my contacts I can assure you a safe journey._

Already the plans were forming in Lucien's mind; he could speak to Matthew tomorrow about his taking some leave, could use the phone in the post office to place a long distance call to Mr. Kim, could be on a boat by Wednesday.

_I do however have some tragic news to impart. While Li was discovered along with several others on a lifeboat, most of the passengers aboard her ship were lost. I am sorry to tell you that your wife did not survive the journey._

Strange, how grief and joy could live together in one single heart; Lucien's felt like to burst from the strain of it. Li, alive and well, Mei Lin, dead and gone. Two loves, one shattered, one full of hope, tears of relief and of pain mingling on his cheeks, and Lucien unable to tell one from the other. His chest heaved, his breathing choked by the lump of emotion that had gathered in his throat. Mei Lin was gone, his beautiful, brilliant, fierce little wife, lost to him forever; the love that they had shared, the home that they had built, those dreams lay in ruins all around him. It would have been enough to break him, had he not known that Li still lived. There was hope, now, more sweet than bitter, for he knew where their darling girl was, could go to her, could tell her stories of the mother who had loved her, sacrificed everything to protect her, could tell her how while she believed herself to be abandoned her father had never given up on her, and had found her at last.

The letter went on, explaining Mr. Kim's methods, how he had come by this information and how he hoped to continue to assist Lucien in his endeavors, but it was quite some time before Lucien read it all, for his heart was chaotic, shredding itself to pieces in his joy and in his sorrow.


	27. Chapter 27

_30 June 1959_

It was a grey, grim day; winter had come for Ballarat, and Jean's heart was heavy, as it often was when she could not see the sun. Oh, her days of being a farmer's wife were long behind her, but though she no longer spent hours toiling in the dirt with green and growing things beneath her hands and sweat rolling down her back still she found her moods waxed and waned with the weather. When the sky was grey and the air turned chill her heart longed to gather in those she loved, to hold them close, to sit round a fire and see those faces dearest to her, and know that they were safe and well. But young Christopher was far from home, caught in a conflict Jean only barely understood, and Jack...well. Last she'd heard of him her wayward boy was in Melbourne, and she hoped, for his sake, that he remained there, that he had at last put down some roots, in his own fashion.

Her boys were gone but her girls were close, and Jean smiled at them fondly as they gathered at the bar, took the steaming bowls of soup she offered them with a chorus of _thank you, Mrs. Beazley,_ each of them bright and beautiful in her own way. Some of them harbored dreams for a better life, saving their shillings for the moment when they'd finally have enough to take them off to Melbourne, or even Sidney, set themselves up somewhere properly and leave this grim phase of their lives behind. Some of them had no plan at all; Sarah had been one of those, but though she had not known her course it had found her just the same, and she was happily settling into her new life in Queensland with her baby girl, whom she'd called _Jean,_ much to Mrs. Beazley's delight. And then there was Maureen, clever, prickly as a cactus, intent on staying right where she was.

There were twelve of them in all, twelve little birds for Jean to feed and nurture, twelve lives whole and distinct. As Jean watched the faces of those who'd gathered to eat the meal she'd made with her own hands her heart sank, just a little; sometimes when she looked at them she felt pride, to see how they flourished, to know that they were safer and better off here than they would be anywhere else. Sometimes her heart was full of love when she looked at them, thinking how each of them was special, a treasure, a joy to know. Now, though, she felt only a sudden rise of sorrow, for each of them was damned, in her own way, on account of the work they did, the work Jean encouraged them to do, the work that earned them the pounds they passed off to her, to keep her pub afloat, to keep a roof over all their heads. They were bound, as Jean was, never to fall in love, each of them tarnished, somehow. They would not find husbands, here, would not find references they could pass on to future employers, could hardly step outside the doors without being met with derision and scorn. Trapped in a cage - a comfortable one, but a cage nonetheless - of Jean's own making. As she watched them eating their lunch she thought of Lucien, and how she longed to hold him, thought of the grief she felt knowing he could never be hers, truly, and wondered about her girls, wondered whether any of them had ever felt the true blush of love, whether any of them had ever lost it, on account of Mrs. Beazley and her rules.

Oh, she could always find justification for her choices. Mrs. Harker hadn't forced her into this line of work; Mrs. Harker had offered her a legitimate occupation, and let her make her own choices about the rest. And likewise Jean had not deceived or entrapped any of her charges; these girls came to her on their own accord, sought her out deliberately, and she kept them safe. If she refused to employ them they'd just find someone else; there was no shortage of young women desperate enough to sell themselves, and no shortage of people unscrupulous enough to profit off that desperation. Much as Jean tried to reassure herself that she was doing the right thing in looking after them, she likewise knew that the Lock and Key was not a place where dreams came true; each day they spent in this place, each customer they took, would pull her girls farther away from the life they wanted, and closer to the life that held Jean captive. No chance for love, no hope for freedom, only this, this pale imitation of independence, this endless turning wheel of money and routine.

It had been a long, long time since Jean had felt so dissatisfied with her work, and loath though she might be to admit it, she knew that it was _his_ fault, that beautiful, wonderful man who had exploded into her life, blown her comfortable world wide open and revealed the wounds that lay festering beneath her facade of contentment. Jean wanted a _home,_ and two arms to hold her, wanted his smiles, wanted the warmth of the sun on her face, wanted a little garden and flowers to grow, wanted a parlor where her sons could visit, and sit beside the hearth, and feel no shame. Jean wanted to believe that whatever news that letter had brought to Lucien he would share it with her, would still be beside her, when the dust settled. She wanted permanence, and love, and until now she had managed to put those wants aside, had found peace in her little suite rooms, in Dimitri's deliveries every Friday, in Maureen's conversation, in the dreams she held for the future, dreams that would never come to be. No more; he had awoken a yearning within her, and she did not know how to temper it.

"All right, Mrs. Beazely?" Maureen asked her softly.

Jean looked up at her sharply; the other girls were talking and eating, but Maureen was watching Jean closely, her brow furrowed with worry.

"Don't frown, sweetheart," Jean answered, reaching out to brush her hand against Maureen's cheek. Maureen jerked back from her, smiling ruefully. "You'll wrinkle before your time."

"Don't tell anyone, but I'm already going grey. Molly at the salon's going to have my business until the day I die."

Jean laughed, but before she could say another word the little bell above the door trilled merrily, announcing the arrival of a visitor. At the sound her heart gave a great leap, wondering if perhaps it was Lucien, already returned to make arrangements for his next appointment, but it was only Danny, looking somewhat uncomfortable the way he always did when he stepped foot in this place.

"Danny!" Jean called to him, delighted to see him as always. In a moment she was stepping out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Auntie Jean," he said as she reached him, bowing his head to kiss her cheek.

"Everything all right?"

Danny was a good lad; Jean had always been close with her sister, and the boys had grown up together. Somehow, mercifully, Eadie had always seemed to believe the stories Jean told her, believed that the Lock and Key was no different from any other pub, and she'd moved to Castlemaine some years before, and Jean had breathed a sigh of relief when she went, not happy to see her go but glad to know that the chances of her learning the truth of Jean's occupation were slim. Danny had found out in his first year as a constable, and though the ensuing confrontation had been terribly uncomfortable for them both the end result had been a bargain struck; Danny was looking to supplement his salary, and Jean was looking for another lad to work security, and they'd both agreed to keep one another's secrets.

"Yeah, fine," he said. That was good news; Danny never came by in the middle of the day, and his policeman's uniform was not a welcome sight. Jean had worried, for a moment, that trouble was afoot, and she was glad to know that she had been wrong on that score.

"I have something for you, though. The Doc asked me to bring it by." Danny reached into his pocket, and withdrew a small envelope with Jean's name written on the front, and Jean stared it curiously, feeling a strange sense of dread beginning to swirl in her belly.

"And now that that's done," he said as he handed it over, "I've gotta get going."

"Are you sure you don't want to stay for lunch? There's plenty to go around."

"No, thanks, Auntie Jean," he said, casting his eyes towards the girls with a wary grimace. "Don't want anyone to see me here. I'll be back on Friday."

He kissed her cheek again, and she bid him farewell, and then found herself alone in the center of the dining room, turning that envelope over in her hands. What could it be, she wondered, that Lucien could only tell her in a letter, and not in person? Was it to do with the letter he'd received, some word of his daughter? It would have been more prudent, she knew, to wait and read the letter when she was alone, but she could not find the strength to wait and so tore the envelope open right there.

 _My dear Jean,_ it began, _I have followed your advice, and read the letter at last. It contained both good news and bad; I know now that my wife has died, but my daughter is alive, and arrangements have been made for me to meet with her in Shanghai. This is the journey that I have longed to make for so many years. You of all people will understand how much I need to see her, to hold her, to tell her I love her. Who knows what will happen, or how it will end? But please know this, I'm coming back to Ballarat, to my father's house, to you. I have found a place of light in the darkness. I have found my home. Thank you for caring, and for being my friend. For the first time in a very long time this feels like the beginning, and not the end._

_Yours, with much affection,_

_Lucien_

Tears gathered in the corners of Jean's eyes, and she covered her mouth with one hand while with the other she clutched the letter to her chest. Lucien's wife was dead, but his daughter still lived, and her heart rejoiced for him, knowing that at last his searching was at an end, and he would be able to see his child. It was what she had prayed for, that he would find relief, and not further grief. The loss of his wife was a tragedy he'd spent nearly two decades preparing for, and she hoped his sorrow would be tempered by the joy of seeing his Li at last.

And he had promised to come home, to come back to her. Though she knew it was folly, knew it was not her place to want him, to miss him while he was away and welcome him with open arms when he returned those words had burrowed themselves in her mind, bringing with them peace, and hope. He would come back to her; though she did not know how long he would be away or what would become of them when his journey ended at least she knew that he meant to make his way _home_ , and she could look forward to his homecoming, to the moment when she could look into his eyes once more, and see his dear smile.

"All right, Mrs. Beazley?" Maureen called out from the bar behind her.

"Yes!" Jean answered, trying to contain the pounding of her heart, the sob that wanted to escape from her chest. "Yes."

In the days and nights to come she would pour over every word of that letter, and fret and hope in equal measure, but in that moment she felt only love, and sent up a quiet prayer for Lucien's safe travels. _Keep him well, and may his journey be a happy one. Bring him back to me,_ she prayed.


	28. Chapter 28

_7 July 1959_

It was very late, but Jean was not sleeping. Sleep had not come easily to her for days, not since Lucien left; her thoughts were chaotic, her body restless, exhaustion and worry twining within her, leaving her quiet and withdrawn. It had been only a week since he left, only a week without him, but those paltry few days felt as heavy to Jean as if they contained an eternity within them.

It was very late, and even the most enthusiastic customers had long since departed. The girls were asleep, as Jean knew she should be, but though she lay nestled in her bed she could hardly close her eyes. How long would it take, she wondered, for Lucien to reach Shanghai? Would he go by boat? Perhaps a man of his means could afford to fly, for at least a portion of the journey, but Jean could not say for certain. Jean had never known anyone who had traveled so far for personal reasons; the only people she knew who'd ever left the country were old friends of Christopher's, soldiers who'd marched off to war and come home with their shoulders bowed by grief, swearing to never again leave Australian soil. Them, and Lucien, of course, but she had not ever spoken to him of his travels abroad, and she had not had a chance to speak with him before he'd taken off on this most recent adventure.

What would he find, when he arrived? His child would be a young woman now; would she be glad, to be reunited with her father at last? Would she grieve for her mother, would she blame Lucien for the many long years of their separation? It wasn't his fault, Jean knew; he had been held captive for so long, and by the time he was free all traces of his family had vanished. Would Li understand that, and forgive him his absence? Would she even want to know him, now? For his sake, Jean hoped that she would; Lucien was a good man, a kind man, and she did not doubt that he loved his daughter with everything he had.

What would she look like, this daughter of his? Lucien had told her that his wife had been a local girl, someone he met while he was stationed in Singapore. Had she been Chinese, then, his wife? Would the girl take after her mother, and look nothing at all like her strapping blonde father? Maybe there would be something in her face that called him to mind; both of Jean's boys looked just like Christopher, to her eyes, though they looked so different from one another. Jack had his father's eyes, his thick hair, his nose; young Christopher had his father's mouth, his chin. _It's nature's insurance policy,_ Jean's mother had told her once. _All babies look like their father, so there's no doubt when they're born._ Jean wasn't entirely sure about that, but she hoped for Lucien's sake that when he looked at his daughter he would see some piece of himself, that he could feel the call of his blood in her veins, and that she, too, could look upon his face and see at once that he was not a stranger, but the father who loved her, who had spent so long missing her, searching desperately for her.

Jean knew she ought not spend so much time thinking about Lucien. There was nothing she could do for him now, nothing but pray, and wait. But wait for what? That was the question that troubled her most, for its answer was dark and hopeless.

_I'm coming back to Ballarat, to my father's house, to you._

When she'd read those words her heart had soared, grateful to know that he planned to return, that he cared enough for her to say such a thing. To promise to come back to her, as she so longed for him to do. It was what she wanted, more than anything else, to see him, to hold him again. And yet her initial relief had given way to despair; whatever he might feel for her - or she for him - the stark truth remained that she was a whore. That word had lost its sting, over the years; she knew what she was, what she did, and she did not shy away from it, any more. She took payment for pleasure, one hour at a time. The best and brightest Ballarat had to offer, the councilmen and solicitors and doctors and old money aristocrats with whom Lucien rubbed shoulders at the Colonists', they all knew it, too; some of them had even paid her themselves. There was no future for Jean and Lucien together, no quiet candlelit dinners, no brief engagement fitting two people who had both been widowed and saw no need to fuss, no happy, comfortable marriage. For him to be seen with her, publicly, would ruin his reputation, put his profession in jeopardy. He stood to lose everything, if he threw his lot in with hers. All that they were, all that they could ever be, was a whore and her customer. Their story would play out one hour at a time, until Lucien's money ran out, or he became disenchanted with the harsh reality Jean had accepted long before.

_Yours, with much affection._

It had been a long time since Jean had been on the receiving end of a man's affection, true affection, like the one she knew Lucien harbored for her. She _wanted_ his affection, his warm smiles, his soft voice, his strong arms. She wanted to hold him, and never mind the time, wanted to sit and sip her tea with him and listen to him speak. She wanted to sit beside him on a comfortable sofa, wanted to dance with him, wanted to feel his hand settle on her back and smile. She wanted to take that affection, and plant it in the hard-packed soil of her own heart, and watch it bloom. But it was not hers to claim, hers to accept, to long for; his love was not meant for the likes of her.

But what then should she do? What could she do?

_Who knows what will happen, or how it will end?_

The simplest solution would be to cut him loose. To tell him, upon his return, that she was no longer accepting his custom. It would wound him, and that hurt would likely be enough to keep him from returning; he was a proud man, and unused to being turned away. She had not taken customers for nearly a decade before he turned up; she did not need to, and though his handsome payments had significantly moved up the timetable for her eventual plans to retire and slip away to a quiet cottage in the country she would carry on just fine without his money. Everything could return to the way it was, before, and she would not have to watch the light of love fade from his eyes, would not have to remind him, again and again, what she was, how limited her own affections must of necessity be. To cut him off would be the lancing of a wound, sharp but quick. To let him linger, to allow them both the indulgence of more time spent together, would be to shred her heart slowly. _Death by a thousand cuts._

To cut ties with him would be the simplest choice, perhaps the smartest one, but as she tossed and turned his face danced behind her eyelids, and she knew she lacked the strength to do such a thing. Though she knew it would be a mercy it felt cruel, somehow, to dash both their hopes so deliberately, instead of letting him slip away of his own accord.

_I have found a place of light in the darkness._

Had he not brought light to her, this wonderful man? Had he not brought excitement to her life, set her very soul afire with a passion that she had thought long since lost to her? Did she not think of him often, did she not greet their every interaction with delight? Did she not tremble when he touched her, as she had not done for any man since Christopher's death? She had not known she was in darkness, until he stepped into view, shining like the sun. Thoughts of hearth and home, a garden and a little kitchen made to feed a family, such yearnings had not plagued her in two decades, and yet they came to her now, because of him. She had thought herself happy with her lot, before. Perhaps she had only been blind.

What darkness had troubled him? She wondered now. Was it only the grief of having lost his father, the grief he felt for his missing family? Was it only the memory of old wounds, weighing heavily upon his back? He had never spoken to her of his past, had never told her how he felt about finding himself once more in Ballarat after so long away. She did not know what he did, when he was not with her, how he amused himself in spare moments, what sort of man he was when he was not with her. There were so many things she did not know about him, and that worried her. Unpredictability could be charming, but it could be lethal, too, and she did not know which side of the coin Lucien would land upon.

_Thank you for caring, and for being my friend._

_Friends,_ that's how this all started. He had asked to be her friend, and she had let him. She had let him in, let him see her, let him speak and let him hear her, shared her table, her tea, her time with him. Jean had precious few friends, and Lucien she counted dearest among them, for all that so much of his story remained unknown to her. When she called he came without question, helped without being asked as any true friend would. They could not be _friends,_ if she cast him out of her bed. She would lose him, completely, in every way.

And yet, though she remained unsure of her own resolve she felt the moment of their sundering seemed to be barreling towards them with all the force of a freight train. Lucien's letter had been full of hope, kind thoughts for their future, but Jean knew better. Their story could only end in tears, as far as she was concerned, hers or his it made no matter. He wanted more than she could give him, and one day, one day very soon, he would see it. Would he disdain her, in the end? Fling money onto her crumpled bedsheets and storm away, never again to darken her door? Would they argue, would she plead with him, would he cause a disturbance in the pub? Would he grow bitter and moody, would he be petulant with her, would he take and take and take until she was forced at last to put her foot down? And what would be left of her, when he was gone; would he take all her hopes with him when he slammed the door?

 _Put it aside,_ she told herself, for perhaps the hundredth time. _You can't fix it now._

No, now there was nothing to do but wait. Wait until she could see him again, and gauge his mood for herself. Wait until she could be sure that he was safe, and then, well, and then…

And then, she knew, she would have to begin the long, painful process of disentangling her heart from his, for both their sakes.


	29. Chapter 29

_31 July 1959_

Friday nights were the best for business. Established gentlemen could assure their wives they were meeting friends for drinks at the Colonists' and make their way to the Lock and Key with no one the wiser. The officers from the Army base came mostly on Fridays and Saturdays; the lads poured off the base like water off a duck's back come Friday, and while the officers were generally more reserved in their tastes when it came to the search for entertainment they looked upon the excuse for freedom with a similar enthusiasm. Dimitri made his deliveries on Fridays, and so Jean's larder was full, and ready for whatever the night might bring. Most of her girls were upstairs with clients already, and the gentlemen gathered at the bar and around the scattered tables were quiet and respectful.

Jean was, as ever, sitting in her usual booth, a cup of tea and a biscuit laid out before her, her knitting spread across her lap. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, hardly needing the direction of her conscious mind as a sky-blue blanket slowly came to life beneath her gentle touch. The blanket served no purpose other than to provide her with occupation; when it was finished she would donate it to the charity bin at Sacred Heart, and start another project. _Idle hands do the devil's work,_ Jean's mother used to say, and she had taken those words to heart, and found ways to keep herself busy, and keep the more morose thoughts at bay.

It had been a full month, since Lucien left. _Absence makes the heart grow fonder,_ people said, but they also said _out of sight, out of mind,_ and that had always struck Jean as strange, that people could claim both statements as equally true despite their contradiction. With every day that passed she thought of Lucien less, as the more pressing details of her daily life took precedence over worrying for a man on the other side of the ocean. And yet, when she _did_ think of him it was always fondly; she knew she could not have him, that when he returned she must of necessity put an end to things between them, but for now, for these days when he was far away and that bleak future remained only a distant possibility, she could think of his smile, and his strong arms, and how wonderful it felt to be held by him, and she could treasure the affection she carried in her heart.

The sound of the little bell above the door drew her attention, and she looked up from her work, then, to see who had come to visit her.

It was two men, strangers to her eyes. Though they were dressed in ordinary clothes she marked them as soldiers at once; their backs were too straight, their posture too rigid, their shoulders too broad, their arms too well-muscled, their eyes too sharp for them to be businessmen. They were both of middle age, though one was older than the other. The younger man had a shaved head and an eerie sort of blankness to his expression that Jean liked not one bit. He wore plain black trousers and a grey coat, and as the pair of them made their way across the bar he shrugged out of it, revealing a plain white shirt beneath. He held out his hand, and the older man passed off his own coat, let the younger carry them both to the coat rack in the corner while the older man flagged Maureen down behind the bar and ordered their drinks. Jean liked the look of the older man as much as she disliked the younger; he had thick, dark hair, and he wore a heavy navy jumper, finely made. His face was worn, handsome in a dignified sort of way. Whatever he'd said to Maureen made the girl flash a smile at him, and Jean smiled herself, glad to see that these newcomers had not brought trouble with them. It was an officer from the base Jean had first taken on as a customer, and she'd always had a soft spot in her heart for them. They reminded her of Christopher, sometimes, brave and selfless, and sometimes they reminded her of Lucien, weary but kind. The officers never caused trouble, and their presence alone was enough to keep everyone else in line. Still smiling, then, Jean returned her gaze to her work, and paid them no more mind.

Everything was as it should be, as it had been before Lucien exploded into her life. Maureen behind the bar, Danny leaning against the wall by the door, a quiet hum of conversation, the clink of glasses against tabletops, and Jean keeping watch over all of it, removed from the action, a queen surveying her kingdom. It was not such a bad life, she told herself. She had the pub, she had her girls, she had a steady stream of money coming in, notes and coins tucked away, piling up until she had enough to leave the Lock and Key in Maureen's capable hands, and start over fresh somewhere else. Christopher was stationed in Adelaide, these days; she could buy a little cottage, with a little garden, and get to know her grandchild, and stand beside the sea. She could be content.

Idly she looked up, and found Maureen stepping out from behind the bar. Elizabeth had come to take her place, and Maureen was leading the younger of the two soldiers towards the staircase in the back. He hadn't wasted any time, then, Jean thought, but there was nothing so unusual about that. Men came here for one reason, and the sooner they got what they came for the sooner they would leave, and the less risk there was for trouble.

"He always did have a penchant for redheads."

Jean cursed herself for her inattention; she had not seen the older officer drifting towards her, and his sudden appearance had caught her by surprise. He must have been light on his feet, but then the officers often were; he looked to be fifty, or thereabouts, and if he was a career soldier, as Jean thought he must be, then he had surely seen combat, as Lucien had done, would surely have survived more horrors than she could even imagine, and to come through all of that and continue to serve his country he would have to be strong, and cautious, and clever. Those were all traits Jean rather approved of.

"He has good taste," Jean answered carefully. "She's popular."

"Is that a good thing, for a young lady in this line of work?"

The dark haired man was watching her thoughtfully, and he offered her a little smile before taking another sip of his beer. Jean had to lift her chin to look up at him; he really was quite tall, but he leaned against the side of the booth as if he were aware of his stature, and trying not to tower over her, and Jean approved of that, too.

"More customers means more money," she answered. It also meant more hands, more risk, less chance for freedom, but Jean did not know this man, and she did not intend to share such thoughts with him.

"Well, let them have their fun, I say."

He did have a nice smile, she thought. He wasn't movie-star handsome, but he seemed kind, and he had an easy way of speaking that reassured Jean somewhat. Most of the customers knew better than to seek her out, but this man was new, and had not yet learned the way of things in the pub, and she was willing to forgive him this minor transgression.

"You're not interested?" she asked him. It was curious, that he should take note of her, that he should seem to want to speak to her, when there were empty seats at the bar and at least three girls not currently occupied who would have happily led him upstairs. Jean had perfected the appearance of insignificance, hiding away in the back of the dining room, but this man had spotted her at once. Almost as if he had been looking for her.

"They're a bit young, for my taste," he answered, and Jean realized what it was he wanted, then.

"I don't take customers, if that's what you're after," she told him primly. "But you can have any girl you like."

"What if I like you?" his smile was somewhat teasing, and she knew he was trying to be charming. In fact, he _was_ rather charming, she thought, had so far been perfectly polite and maintained a certain distance, had not taken the liberty of sitting down beside her, and he had not grown cross at her initial refusal. It was rather nice to be on the receiving end of such simple interest, uncomplicated in comparison to Lucien.

"Well," she said, biting back a smile of her own, "that's very kind of you to say, but it doesn't change things. I don't take customers."

"That's not what I've heard," he said softly, and for the first time Jean felt the flutter of anxiety in her heart. What _had_ he heard? And who had he heard it from? She'd only taken Lucien to bed twice, and they'd been the very picture of discretion. He never entered through the main door, and he only came early in the evening, when there were few customers about. If word of their liaison had already reached as far as the base then their predicament was more calamitous than Jean had realized.

"One hundred pounds for an hour, is that right, Mrs. Beazley?"

His voice was very low, and his smile had disappeared; he was watching her intently, and Jean's worry gave way to dread in a moment. He must have come looking for her, then; he knew her name, knew about Lucien, knew precisely how much she'd charged him, and sought her out deliberately, offering the same. What Jean didn't know was _why;_ who was this man, and why had he taken an interest? Why had he come here? Was he making an offer of his own, or was he trying to tell her something, tell her that he knew what she had done, and who she'd done it with? And had it just been coincidence, that the fellow he'd come with had taken Jean's favorite girl to bed? A minute before Jean had been happy, at peace, but now danger seemed to swirl through the air, tension tightening every muscle of her body. This place was her _home,_ these girls her family, and though she did not know why this stranger had come she couldn't help but feel as if he represented a threat to everything she held dear.

"That's a generous offer," she demurred. "But I'm not for sale."

"Everything has its price, Mrs. Beazley," the man said easily. "What about five hundred pounds, for an evening?"

That gave Jean pause. Five hundred pounds, that was a king's ransom. Five hundred pounds and she could move to Adelaide within the year. Five hundred pounds and she could put all this behind her, could go somewhere no one knew her name. Five hundred pounds, and Jean could find a new church, and hold her head up high, and take communion without reservation. The cottage, the garden, her family, everything she wanted could be had for such a price. She could have a proper home, and an address where Lucien could write to her, come to visit her, if he wished. Five hundred pounds would change everything in an instant. And all she'd have to do, in return, was spend the evening with a handsome man. There was a piece of her heart that wanted to accept him, in that moment. She'd handled difficult men before, and if she made him pay in advance she could always throw him out, if he crossed a line. He had called her by her name, and that was worrisome, and he obviously knew about Lucien and that was more worrying still, but they were in Jean's home, and Danny was close to hand.

 _Maybe if I accept I can find out what he's after,_ she thought as she looked at him, weighing her options. Perhaps his motives were not nefarious; perhaps he meant what he'd said, and was only looking for a tumble with someone who wasn't young enough to be his own child. Perhaps he'd heard she was taking customers, and only wanted to pay her himself. Perhaps the worry that churned deep in her gut was unfounded.

"Six hundred?" he pressed.

 _Oh, good lord,_ Jean thought. Instinct told her to say no; something about this felt off, though she could not put her finger on it. Was it only instinct that troubled her? she asked herself as she looked at him. Was it only the reactions she'd honed during her many years in this business, or was it Lucien that gave her pause? Before him she'd not taken a customer in a decade. She had accepted Lucien because she liked him, because she wanted him, because she thought he was worth the risk. The man who stood before her now reminded her of Lucien in some ways, but though he offered her everything she wanted she did not know _know_ him, and she felt nothing at all for him, not like she did for Lucien.

 _It wouldn't be a betrayal,_ she tried to tell herself. Lucien had no claim on her, and he knew what she was. There was nothing stopping her from going to bed with any man she chose. And this man, this man was offering her _six hundred pounds,_ for one single evening. Why, then, had she not accepted him already? Why should it be wrong to take his money, and right to take Lucien's?

"That's a very interesting offer," she said slowly. "But if I'm going to change my policy about taking customers, I'd like to know your name, at least."

The man smiled and shifted slightly, swapping his beer from his right hand to his left, holding his right out for her to shake.

"Major Derek Alderton, at your service," he said.

"It's very nice to meet you, Major Alderton," Jean said. "I will consider your offer. If you're serious, come back and see me next Friday."

"I'll do that, Mrs. Beazley," he said. "But I can see you're busy with your work. I'll leave you to think things over."

And with those words he turned and left her, made his way back to the bar where he settled upon a stool with his back to her. For the next hour he paid her no mind, though Jean could not seem to keep her eyes off him. _Six hundred pounds._ That was all it would take, to set her free at last. Her needles flickered idly as she turned the proposition over in her mind, considering her doubts and her hopes, weighing one against the other.

At last the younger officer appeared in the stairwell, and Major Alderton rose, placed a few coins on the bar as payment for his drinks. The younger officer brought him his coat, and they spoke together quietly as they both prepared to leave. While Jean watched the Major turned towards her, and smiled once, fleetingly, before the pair of them departed. In their absence Jean was left troubled, and full of doubts, wondering what lay in store, and what choice she would make.


	30. Chapter 30

_6 August 1959_

Thursdays were for laundry. Jean had a well-established routine, and she followed it each week like clockwork, comforted somewhat by knowing what to expect. In a previous life laundry had been reserved for Saturdays, when the week's work was through and she could gather up all of Christopher's dirty things, hang them out on the line in fine weather and make sure he had something nice to wear to church come Sunday. Life was different, in the Lock and Key; Saturdays were working days, and everyone was too tired from Friday night's exertion to fuss over clothes. Thursdays were better, for laundry, and Jean could make sure each of her girls had everything they needed for the busy nights ahead.

It was a chill grey day, and with the threat of rain hanging in the air Jean didn't dare hang the girls' fine dresses out on the line in the carpark. The kitchen would have to do; it had served in a pinch many times before, and would many times again. There was a length of twine strung up for just this purpose on the wall opposite the sinks, and the heat from the ovens churning out bread and pies for the evening's customers would help to dry the clothes all the faster. Sometimes one or another of the girls would help her, but on this particular day Jean was alone, and glad of it. Friday was rapidly approaching, and with it the return of Major Alderton, come to see if she would accept his proposal.

In truth Jean had not yet decided which course she intended to take. _You can always say no,_ that was rule number one, and the income from the food and drinks she served along with the rent she collected from her girls meant that she could decline more easily than she had ever done before she took over the pub. Jean earned her money in other ways, now, and was not so desperate for a few pounds to spare that she was willing to contradict her own desires. Oh, she had dreams for her future, dreams that would require funds, but those funds were trickling in steadily, and she wanted for nothing. She had not accepted Lucien for the sake of the money he offered her; she had accepted him because she _wanted_ to. A few more meetings with Lucien would earn her just as much money as Major Alderton had offered, and would do so - she thought - in much more entertaining fashion.

But Lucien had not come home, had not sent word to her, had been gone over a month, now. And when he did make his way home, as he had promised to do, there was no guarantee he could afford to pay such a price; she could not count on his being able to pay for her services six more times. Major Alderton, however, had offered her six hundred pounds for one single evening. One night, and she could move to Adelaide before the year was out, rather than having to wait another two or three or five years to save up a comparable sum. One night seemed a small price to pay to release her from her bonds. And Major Alderton was a nice enough looking fellow, and he had spoken to her softly, but…

But she did not _want_ him, and somewhere deep within her heart she feared him. She feared what he knew, feared his motivations in coming to her, feared the bald-headed man who'd come with him, and taken Maureen to bed. Maureen had come to Jean, after, with a strange look on her face, and said that while the chap had been perfectly polite he had been silent to the point of strangeness, and left her feeling uncomfortable, and even alarmed. _No, he didn't hurt me,_ Maureen had said, _but that man isn't right, Mrs. Beazley. I'll not take him on again, not even if he offered me fifty pounds._ What sort of man could trouble Maureen so, Jean had asked herself, Maureen who was thick-skinned and unafraid of anything or anyone? And Major Alderton, as nice as he had seemed, had brought that man to Jean's door.

 _I'll decide tomorrow,_ Jean told herself as she worked, hanging the girls' dresses on the line. _I'll decide in the morning, and by the time he comes I'll have made up my mind._

Things would be no clearer tomorrow than they were right now, she knew, but she was not yet ready to choose, was not yet ready to close the door on the possibility of earning six hundred pounds so easily and leaving this life behind for the warmth of Adelaide. Putting the decision off earned her a moment's peace, however, and Jean hummed as she worked, nearing the bottom of the day's laundry basket. A few more minutes spent here, and then she could go and have a cup of tea, and then she'd see about getting the girls' supper started, and then...well. Then she'd see what the night might bring.

Everything was as it should be, utterly unremarkable in every way, and so Jean was surprised to hear the sound of a heavy foot fall from the kitchen doorway. The girls were lighter on their feet, and would have no cause to join her here in any case, and she was not expecting visitors of any sort. She spun to look, to see who had interrupted her quiet afternoon, and promptly dropped the shirt she was holding, stunned to her core at what she found.

It was Lucien.

Lucien, his hat in his hands, wearing his sharp grey coat in deference to the chill. His face was drawn, and sad, but he smiled when he saw her, a warm, grateful sort of smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in that way she loved so well. _Lucien,_ home at last; she had not expected this, had not looked for him, had not prepared herself in any way for the surge of emotion that overwhelmed her at the sight of his face, and suddenly tears began to gather in the corners of her eyes. She had missed him, had missed him so much, had spent so long trying to pretend that she didn't, that she was getting by quite all right with him, and all that missing crashed into her at once, left her weak in the knees and all but speechless.

For his part Lucien did not linger in the doorway; he was marching towards her, full of purpose. She could see it in his eyes, could see how they darkened, could see how the longing within her heart was matched in his own, and she could do no more than stand, and wait, and breathe his name.

" _Lucien_ ," she whispered, but in the next heartbeat he was beside her, reaching for her. One of his hands found her hip and the other reached to cradle her cheek, and she leaned into that touch as a single tear spilled down her cheek. Oh, but she had worried for him, had wondered whether he would be safe, whether he would be well, whether he would find joy, whether he would come back to her at all, and now there was no more cause for worry, not when he stood before her, touching her gently. He was safe, and _here._

"I missed you, Jean," he answered, his eyes searching her face, that smile still gracing his features, though there was a sadness in him that Jean could not understand.

He had missed her, as she had missed him; it was all too much, in that moment. The worry she'd carried for him, the grief she'd felt at knowing she must prepare herself to let him go, the fear Major Alderton's arrival had stirred within her, all her longing for a better life; the tension of it wound so tight she could not bear it another second longer, and with a gasp she broke, flung her arms around his neck and clung to him fiercely.

Lucien returned her embrace at once, seeming as eager, as desperate as she for this contact between them. His strong arms held her fast and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathed him and tried to still the riotous clamoring of her heart. He had come home, but one day soon she must let him go. She wanted him, but he was not hers to claim. He had come to her, but she knew she could not allow him to take the liberties she so longed to indulge in. In the moment what Jean wanted, more than anything else, was to take him to her room, for them both to burrow beneath her bedsheets and cling to one another. She wanted to hear everything about his trip to China, wanted to know what he had found, how his daughter was faring. She wanted him to promise her that everything was going to be all right, and she wanted to believe him.

" _Christ,_ I missed you," he repeated as he held her tight. She could feel the tension in him, heavy muscles drawn taut for reasons she did not entirely understand. In her embrace he was warm, and solid, and real, and a single thought coalesced in her mind; she would not accept Major Alderton, not now. For the first time in a decade Jean had let a man touch her, and that man now meant so much to her that thought of sharing herself with anyone else seemed somehow obscene. It wasn't the way things were done in her business, and might well have been the height of folly, but her mind was made up. It was Lucien she wanted, and no other.

"I'm so glad you're home," she whispered against his neck, still holding him, unwilling to even consider letting him go.

"As am I, my darling," he said. The sound of those words from his lips - _my darling -_ set off a fresh wave of tears; she wanted to be _his,_ wanted to be his _darling,_ wanted to believe that they stood a chance, that they could belong together. She wanted to believe that the peace she felt, holding him, could be preserved for more than just one hour. Rationally she knew better, but it was her heart, and not her head, that guided her in that moment.

And so when Lucien's hands shifted, when he caught hold of her bum and lifted her, she went with him easily, let her skirt bunch up around her hips, locked her legs tight around his waist and tilted her chin so that she could look into his eyes. Those blue eyes, beautiful and warm, focused on her, so full of want; Jean lost herself in those eyes. Lucien's hands held her tight against him with a strength that would not let her fall, and he let his head drop, let his forehead rest against her own, their noses slotting into place, close enough for her to feel the brush of his beard against her lips.

And she wanted, _oh,_ how she wanted, to kiss him. To press her lips to his, and drink him in, to let them both be carried away by this affection they felt for one another, right here in the kitchen. She wanted to taste him, wanted to share this with him without thought of payment or an eye on the clock, wanted him to know how much he meant to her, how completely he had shaken up her world, how grateful, how relieved she was to have him back in her arms once more. One second passed, and then another, both of them with their eyes closed, barely breathing, their lips almost touching and yet not quite closing the distance. Jean shivered in his arms, eager, desperate, dancing on the very precipice of disaster, her restraint fraying with each of her heaving breaths. It would be easy, so easy, to give in now, to let herself have what she so dearly longed for, consequences be damned.

"I don't have a hundred pounds," Lucien growled at her. His voice was ragged, yearning; she could not tell whether it was disappointment or hope, that led him to say such a thing, whether he knew that without funds he could not have her and was resigned to that fact, or if he was trying to press his luck any way.

"How much do you have?" she asked him breathlessly. The heat and the hardness of him between her legs, the dizzying taste of his breath on her lips, the way his hands clenched tighter against her bum sent her careening towards the edge of madness.

"Twenty," he said.

Jean grinned, and planted her lips at the corner of his mouth, trying to calm her racing heart.

"I'll take fifteen," she said.


	31. Chapter 31

_6 August 1959_

More than five weeks Lucien had been gone. Five weeks without Jean. Five weeks travelling from Ballarat to Melbourne to Hong Kong to Shanghai, and back again. He'd been moving almost every moment he was away, never resting in any one place for long; even in Shanghai he'd only stayed in the consulate for five days. China was a restless, tense sort of place at present, and he was made unwelcome there by virtue of his face. What he'd found in Shanghai had been bitter and sweet, more than he'd ever dreamed of and yet not as much as he'd hoped. His body was weary, but so too was his heart, and Jean was a balm to him, her warm embrace a blessing after so far away. Despite all his attempts Ballarat had become his home once more, and the moment he set foot on its familiar soil he had gone straight to Jean, for he knew he could not rest until he saw her face again. The world beyond this little town was treacherous and cruel, and he did not want to think on it any longer, did not want to spend another moment lost in regrets and grief.

Despite the protestations of his back his pride would have had him carry her up the stairs, and happily, but Jean intervened, slid out of his grasp there in the kitchen, took hold of his hand and led him away. Lucien let her, hardly caring where he went or what he did so long as he was with her. The depth of her response to him moved him, more than words could say; he had hoped that she missed him, as he missed her, but having so recently seen all his hopes torn down before his very eyes he had not expected her tears, her fierce embrace. He had thought his current lack of funds would spell an end to their happy reunion, but Jean had surprised him on that score, let him have her for a song. Later he would wonder about that, wonder why she had chosen to accept such paltry payment in comparison to the vast sum she had previously demanded, but in the moment he was only grateful, needing her desperately. The way she clung to his hand made him think she must have felt the same.

Up the stairs, down the corridor, through her bedroom door and across the parlor they went, and never encountered another soul; a point in their favor, he thought, for in taking him to bed now Jean had broken another of her rules. Daytime sessions were by appointment only, arranged in advance at her discretion, but this time she had not made him wait. This time she had smiled, and very nearly kissed him, and led him up the stairs at once. Perhaps, he thought, she was as impatient to hold him as he was for her.

The moment they were in her bedroom Lucien reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his wallet. It contained a wad of bills, the remnants of the funds that had supported him during his travels. He would have given her all of it, and happily, but she had only asked for fifteen pounds, had graciously allowed him a few notes with which he intended to purchase a bit of food and a bottle of good whiskey to see him through the night. He'd need it, later, but in the moment he only needed her.

She grinned, when he handed her the bills, magicked them out of sight in a moment before turning back to face him. On the previous occasions when he had visited her here she had been ready for him, had been dressed in a wisp of lace with her hourglass close to hand, the bed neatly made and her personal belongings neatly arranged. Not so, today; today she wore a brown skirt and a pale pink blouse and her serviceable suede pumps, and there was a pair of stockings hung over the mirror above her dressing table, and a book on the table beside the bed. The curtains were open, and he caught the briefest glimpse of the grey sky beyond her little window before his eyes snapped back to her face.

She was watching him, grey eyes wide and round, and he could not keep himself from her another second longer. Deftly he drew her to him, his hands landing comfortably on her waist, and she fell against him at once, reaching for the lapels of his jacket and drawing him closer still.

"One hour, Doctor Blake," she told him breathlessly. Later he would realize she had not retrieved her hourglass, and wonder what it meant, but in the moment he only smiled, and bowed his head, let his lips trail against the rise of her cheek. Her delicate hands peeled the jacket from his shoulders and returned at once to the buttons of his waistcoat, and he simply stood, still and holding her, letting her do as she wished. The faint scent of laundry soap and fresh-baked bread seemed to float around her, and the curve of her bum in that damnable skirt called his name. One hour was not enough, would not ever be enough, but he would make use of every second. Too long he'd been away, too long without her; there were so many things he wanted to tell her, so much he longed for them to discuss, but their clinch in the kitchen had lit a fire in his belly and it was that need he intended to sate first. They could talk after, he decided, as they had done before, quiet and grateful in her bed; if they ran out of time and if she required additional payment he'd gladly give her his last five pounds and go round to Matthew Lawson's in search of food.

"What will we do with ourselves for an hour, Mrs. Beazley?" he asked her quietly, teasingly, his lips against her neck as she tugged his waistcoat from his shoulders.

"You're a clever man," she answered. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

Lucien grinned; he could think of several things, as it happened.

She reached for his tie, and he let her nimble fingers pick at the knot while his hands set a course for her blouse, pulling it slowly out of her skirt. It had been tucked in quite neatly, and he liked the sight of it coming free, liked the way she shivered when his hands brushed against her belly through the thin fabric. Slowly, very slowly, he began to unbutton it from the bottom up, his eyes on his hands while Jean slipped his tie free from around his neck.

"Lucien," she whispered, somewhat urgently, and he looked up at her then, and found her watching him closely. "It'll take too long, like this," she said, tugging at his shirt. "It would be faster if we…"

She left it hanging but Lucien did not need further explanation; he understood full well what she meant. The suggestion disappointed him somehow - he had been quite looking forward to carefully stripping her out of each of her many layers - but he could see the logic in it, and could not justify wasting precious minutes fiddling with buttons when he was not even allowed to kiss her.

"Quite right, too," he said.

And so Jean took a step back, and finished the work of unbuttoning her blouse herself. His fingers stuttered across his own buttons, awestruck by the easy grace of her simple movements, the utterly unselfconscious way she bared herself to him. As he struggled to free himself from his own shirt Jean slipped easily out of her blouse; beneath it she wore a white satin slip, and though she was still almost entirely covered the smooth pale skin of her arms and chest suddenly revealed to him left his mouth dry and his heart aching.

Their shirts hit the floor at the same time, followed by his vest, and her skirt. They kicked out of their shoes, and as Lucien unfastened his belt Jean tugged her slip over her head, and as she did he realized she had made the right decision, in urging them to do this work themselves. It would have been all but impossible for him to strip her out of that girdle, he thought as he watched her struggle with it; his own trousers came off more easily, and he turned his attention to his socks while Jean at last tugged the girdle free, taking her stockings with it. She was left in a white satin bra and matching knickers, perfectly serviceable garments that could not have been more different from her black lace, and yet seemed far more enticing to him now.

"Wait," he said raggedly, reaching for her. This much he wanted to do himself, he thought, and she must have understood for she let him pull her in close, let his arms wind around her back while his lips brushed against her temple. He took a moment simply to breathe, to try to calm his racing heart, to remind himself why he was here, what he meant to do, what a gift it was, to have this hour with her; he did not wish to approach their joining with the same practicality with which they'd undressed themselves. He wanted to touch her, to run his hands over her soft skin, to feel the racing of his blood in his veins. He wanted the sensation of completeness he only ever found here, in her arms.

Jean let him, leaned into him as his hands trailed over her back, as at last his fingers found the clasp of her bra and unfastened it deftly. Slowly, gently, he caught hold of it, peeled it from her skin, and as it hit the floor he looked at her, and found himself almost overwhelmed by a sudden torrent of longing. _Christ,_ but she was beautiful, the neat curve of her breast, the flare of her hips, her soft belly, her lean legs. While he stood paralyzed by her glory Jean reached for him, dipped her fingers beneath the waistband of his trunks and tugged gently.

"Come on, then," she said, and as he stared at her she slipped her knickers off her hips, and then eased herself back onto the bed. Her legs splayed open, her thighs soft and begging for the touch of his hands, her smile hesitant, and hopeful; he had never seen anything more beautiful, and so immediately shucked his trunks and all but vaulted into her embrace. A breathless laugh escaped her, as her arms wound round his back, but then their noses brushed together, and their lips came perilously close to touching, and the sound died away at once. Lucien caught himself, but only just; he could feel her plump bottom lip against his own, could feel the warm wash of her breath against his mouth, could feel every inch of her pressed against every inch of himself. His heart froze, waiting, but Jean demonstrated more restraint than he ever could, turned her head and let her kiss land warm and wet and full of longing against his cheek just above the line of his beard. Her thighs were soft at his hips, her hands gentle on his back, her body molding to fit him already, and they'd barely even begun.

"Lucien," she whispered, trailing kisses across his face. He hung his head, let his hands settle on the mattress and tried to take some of his weight off her while still she clung to him. " _Lucien,_ " she said again, and there was such a sweetness to her tone, such earnest longing it nearly brought tears to his eyes. Her lips found the curve of his ear, and he shivered as her mouth moved across him. But suddenly, shockingly, her teeth caught against his earlobe, nipped at him teasingly, and he groaned and bucked against her reflexively. She was beautiful, and he wanted her, and just the sight of her had been enough to leave him half-hard with longing, but they were neither of them ready, yet, for what came next. Lucien knew exactly how he intended to entertain them both while desire built between them, but it seemed Jean had other ideas; she snaked one hand between them, and caught hold of his shaft, and Lucien relinquished any pretense of control to her at once.

"On your back," she whispered against his ear, and he groaned, unable to resist her command. Obediently he rolled to the side, but Jean did not follow suit, did not settle herself upon his hips as she had done the previous times they'd come together. Instead she stretched herself out along his side, one of her legs sliding over his broad thigh, her hand reaching for him once more, sliding slowly, teasingly up and down his length. He could feel the heat of her against his leg, could feel the softness of her breast against his chest, and the sight of her hand working its magic upon him tore a curse from his lips, his hips rising up to follow her touch on instinct.

Jean laughed once, softly, and pressed a kiss to his chest, and then, at last, she moved. With tender hands she directed him to spread his legs, and then clambered over him, knelt down between his parted thighs. Her dark hair had begun to escape the confines of its pins, a lock of it falling endearingly across her forehead, hiding her grey eyes from view. Conscious thought had almost deserted him but he realized at the last second what she intended to do, and he reached for her, let his hand pass gently over her hair, brushing it back from her face.

"Jean," he gasped, "you don't have to."

She'd said the same to him, once, and when she smiled at him then he knew that she was remembering it.

"I want to," she said, and in the next breath she bowed her head, and at the heat of her mouth upon him Lucien lost himself entirely.


	32. Chapter 32

_6 August 1959_

Lucien drew in a ragged breath. The sight of Jean, naked and kneeling between his knees, would have been tantalizing enough on its own, but when coupled with the heat of her mouth and her hand upon him it threatened to undo him utterly. Her dark hair tumbled enticingly across her face and Lucien fought the urge to tangle his fingers in it; he didn't trust himself to maintain control, to keep from pressing her onward, if he let his hands settle upon her, and so instead he fisted them in the bedsheets, and swore.

Jean grinned at him, and slowly, slowly dragged her lips down the length of his shaft, and the thought of her kissing him there when the brush of her lips against his own was not allowed coiled the tension in his belly ever tighter. With a gentle hand she held him, and as her mouth moved back up him so, too, did that hand, and he shivered, and watched her do it again. How many times had she done this? How many others -

" _Christ,"_ he swore again, as slowly, very slowly, she took him into her mouth, warm, soft lips wrapped around him, her tongue swirling over the tip of his shaft, and he was as ready for her in that moment as he had ever been for any woman in his life. Why she had done this thing, whether because she wanted to, or because she felt some debt was owed for favors he had bestowed on her previously, or because it seemed the easiest way to arouse them both he could not say, but it was a gift he had not looked for, and for that reason he was doubly grateful. Still she moved, taking him in a little bit deeper each time her mouth descended upon him, his hips rising up to follow her as she retreated, unable to resist the siren song of her warmth. In that moment she held him utterly in thrall; his whole body was tense, tight, bowing towards her, trembling with the strain of resisting the urge to thrust up against her, his hands clenching the bedsheets as if for dear life.

* * *

There was something about it that made her feel powerful, knowing how completely focused he was on her, how completely he had surrendered control of himself into her hands. When they'd begun he was barely ready and now he was hard as marble in her mouth, but with his hands flung out beside him he held himself captive, let her do whatever she wished. That was all for the good, as Jean had not taken the time to remove the pins from her hair and his tugging on it now would have been terribly uncomfortable. But he didn't reach for her, didn't try to guide her, let her set the pace for things between them, and she was enjoying that power over him now. _She_ had done this; she was the reason for the strain in his broad arms, for the twisting of the thick tendons in his neck, for the soft groan of longing that tore out of him. It was a powerful thing, to be wanted, not just for the promise of a quick release but for everything she was, and as she touched him now she felt that want in every twitch and tremble of his body.

This had never been her favorite act, but she found she didn't mind it so much now, with him. With him it felt different; she didn't feel used, or dirty, and the smell of him was familiar to her now, and she did not balk at the taste of him against her tongue. She had grown accustomed to him already, and the familiarity they enjoyed with one another only made it easier to touch him this way. Teasingly she pulled him from her mouth, saw how his shaft wept with want of her, and slowly dragged her tongue up the length of him, drawing another guttural groan from his lips. It was his lips she wanted to kiss but still she clung to that last and most sacred of her rules. She had decided to enjoy herself here, with him, to set aside all thoughts of putting an end to their relationship until this particular tryst was done, but deep in a far corner of her heart she knew what she meant to do, and she could not allow herself to kiss him now, to give him such hope, knowing she meant to wound him later. Things would be hard enough as they were; there was no sense in making things worse.

Still she carried on, lips and hands working over him methodically, and she lost all sense of the time, caught up in him, the way he moved, the sight of his heavy, powerful body laid out before her. There was so much more she could do, so much more she could have done, but Lucien put it a stop to it before she got carried away; he reached for her, suddenly, his fingers finding her chin and urging her to lift her head.

"Wait," he panted at her raggedly. "Wait."

And so she drew back, looking at him curiously, wondering what he meant to do next.

"I want you, Jean," he told her then. "Not like this."

She smiled; what a dear man he was. Somehow she didn't think she'd brought him quite to the edge just yet, but he knew as well as she did that their time was limited, and no doubt had a good many other things in mind, things they could both enjoy together, and his concern for her enjoyment touched her with its sweetness.

"How, then?" she asked him teasingly. Idly she glanced towards the little table beside her bed, wondering how much time they had left, and only then did she realize she had not retrieved her hourglass. Inwardly she cursed herself for her foolishness; she'd been so caught up in her delight at seeing him again she'd quite forgotten to prepare herself for this meeting in any way. How much time had passed? From the moment they entered her bedroom until now? Enough time for them to undress, to tumble into bed together, enough time for her to...well.

 _A quarter of an hour,_ she told herself. _We'll say he has three quarters left._

"Come here," he said, in answer to her question, and so she did, sliding slowly up his body, pausing just long enough to drop a kiss against his chest.

"Like this?" she asked, straddling his hips as she smiled down at him.

"No."

And then, before she could so much as draw a breath, Lucien turned them easily, rolled her smoothly under him so that she lay upon her back, her thighs grasping against his hips. She could feel the hard, wet length of his cock pressed against her, and shivered at the sensation, not yet ready for him but wanting him anyway. He hung his head low as he planted his hands beside her head on the mattress, the tip of his nose just brushing against her own, and the air of teasing joviality they'd cultivated between them vanished at once, replaced with a heavy, tense sort of longing. It happened so quickly; one moment she was smiling, and in the next she could hardly breathe as her heart pounded against her chest, need coiling low in her belly.

"Wait," she whispered, trying to gather herself as she reached for his left hand. Lucien let her, let her lift his hand, let her draw his wrist towards her so she could check the time on his watch. She did a bit of quick maths, the numbers steadying her somewhat, determining the time when she would have to call a halt to things between them, and then she drew his hand to her mouth, and pressed a kiss against his palm.

"What's the verdict?" he asked her softly.

"Forty-five minutes," she answered.

Lucien frowned; did he not believe her? She wondered. Did he think they ought to have more time, or did he realize that she was only guessing, that she had lost count of the minutes already? Jean didn't know, and she wasn't about to ask. Lucien took his hand from her mouth, and slid it slowly, slowly down her body, between her legs, and all thoughts of the time seemed to vanish as he began to touch her.

 _This man will be the end of me,_ she thought; already he knew so much about her, had learned so well how to please her, and those fingers stroking slowly through her wetness sent need sparking through her veins like electricity. With every move of his hand he watched her, gauging her reactions, his expression serious, his gaze unwavering. What did he see when he looked at her like this? She wondered. Could he see how desperately she needed him, how badly she wanted to keep him with her, and never let him go?

* * *

It was unbearable, really, how beautiful she was, the way she responded to the touch of his hand. He could feel her, hot and wet against his fingers, could feel her shiver when his thumb brushed over the little nub at the apex of her pleasure. He could see the crimson blush working its way up her chest, could see her soft pink nipples pebbling in the cool air of her bedroom, could see the way her eyes fluttered closed and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, already falling under the spell of desire as he had done with her mouth upon him. Her thighs clenched hard against his waist, and he pressed his own hips towards the mattress, trying to stave off the rising swell of his own need. Eager to push her closer to the brink he bowed his head, let his mouth settle over one of her perfect breasts, and she sighed and tangled her fingers in his hair, held him against her. Encouraged by her reaction he flicked his tongue over her nipple and slid one finger slowly, achingly slowly into her tender heat. A soft moan escaped her, her hips pressing up towards him, and he grinned against her breast, pleased to know how deeply he had moved her. Carefully he worked that one finger inside her, curled it against her fluttering walls even as his thumb moved over her, even as his teeth scraped gently over her nipple, and the sound that left her then was more like a whimper than anything else.

Lucien could have stayed like that all day, warm and secure between her thighs, but she had given him a timetable, and he did not want to waste a second of it. And so, after a few more gentle thrusts of his hand, he withdrew his fingers from her glossy folds, and reached instead for his own cock, sliding a little further up his body so his shaft could settle against the heat of her sex. Jean's eyes flew open, watching him as he settled himself more firmly above her; _Christ,_ but he loved those eyes, the color of the sea in a storm, bright and beautiful and fixed on his face from inches away. Idly he thrust himself against her, let them both feel the slide of his cock over her silken folds, their breath hitching, hearts racing. He did it again, and again, let the head of his cock catch against her center and let the warm sound of her gasp wash over him. Jean's hands drifted over his back, her palm gentle against his scars, and he did not stop her, for when she touched him there he felt only peace, and not the sting of bitter memories.

Once more he thrust against her, and a soft, frustrated sort of sound left her.

"Lucien, _please,"_ she whispered.

Need was written on every line of her face, her neck arched as she flung her head back on the pillows, her eyes hooded and watching him intently, soft lips parted.

"Please, what?" he teased her, grinding himself against her.

There was a flicker of something in her eyes, some sort of hesitation that did not seem to have anything at all to do with lust.

"I want you," she breathed after a moment, and in those words he heard a capitulation he had not expected her to make, and understood the strange look he'd seen at once. In Jean's business when a man bought a woman it had nothing at all to do with what _she_ wanted; she would let him have what he wished, and she would take her payment, but she had not chosen him. With those three simple words Jean had confessed the desires of her own heart, had shattered any notion that this thing between them was no more than business. _She_ wanted _him;_ it was a cataclysmic revelation, and one he knew it had cost her dearly to make.

"You have me," he whispered, his lips brushing over the rise of her cheek. _Body and soul, you have me._

In the next breath he guided himself slowly into her, let the tip of his shaft sink between her folds, and they sighed together, relieved and overcome. When he was sure of his mark Lucien drew his hand out from between them, placed it back on the mattress by her head and held himself steady as he thrust gently against her, sliding that little bit further into her welcoming heat. Suspended above her like this their faces were almost touching, but if he tilted his head he could see the rise of her body, could see below the softness of her breasts and the trembling muscles of her belly the way her hips rocked towards him, drawing him in, deeper, and deeper still, and knew that she was moving this way because she _wanted_ to, because she wanted _him._

" _Christ_ , you feel good," he groaned, rocking against her, awestruck as he always was by the way she accepted him, all of him, with such grace. He dropped his head, let his forehead rest against hers, both their skin slick with sweat already. His nose rested against hers, their lips no more than a hair's breadth apart, mouths open as sounds of pleasure they could not contain came rumbling out of both of them.

Jean did not answer him with words; she pressed her hips towards him, and he began to move with more purpose, drawing his hips back and then surging forward again, and again; as the movements of his body grew more powerful he could not continue to rest his head against hers, but he maintained the almost union of their mouths, her breath washing warm and sweet over his lips until he could almost taste her moans. Beneath him her body arched towards him, the graceful muscles of her neck tight and tense with yearning. Against his back her hands no longer moved, but her fingers turned in and caught against his muscles, holding tight to him. Everywhere they touched his skin burned, hot and wet with exertion, hers so soft, satin smooth and electric against him.

How long they remained like that he could not say; Lucien held himself off as long as he could, his movements slow, purposeful, designed not to race to his release but instead to bring them both as much pleasure as he could wring from them. Jean matched him thrust for thrust, maintained their rhythm when he faltered, trembled as it all became too much to bear. A steady stream of little whimpers and sudden moans left her, and he swallowed each of them, his lips so close to hers he could almost feel them touch. Almost, but not quite; for the sake of her pride he held back, but only just.

" _Please,_ " she began to gasp, suddenly urgent, and he could feel the fluttering of her inner walls as still he thrust steadily against her, as deep as he could go and yet wanting more, wanting everything. Even with their bodies flush together it was not _enough,_ and he began to pick up the pace, eager now, desperate for more.

" _Please,"_ she said again, " _oh, Lucien-"_

He would have kissed her then, if she would have let him, but even in this moment of abandon he knew better, and so did not. Instead he only moved faster, and harder, and one of her hands left his back, snaked between them and reached down to the place where they were joined, her fingers touching both of them as his cock, glossy with her need now, thrust wildly into her, as she rubbed herself with increasing desperation, as that word _please_ dissolved into a string of moans sweeter than any song he had ever heard before. Lucien clenched his teeth, too close to the edge, and only then realized what they had done; he wasn't wearing a condom, and he was almost - but not quite - too close to care. How had they come this far without remembering something so vital? It was the one of Jean's rules Lucien understood the most, respected most, but they had been so caught up in one another it had never even occurred to him.

"Jean," he groaned against her mouth. "I'm close, I'm-"

" _Please,"_ she managed to gasp, and he felt her teetering on the edge, and there was nothing he wanted more, in that moment, than to feel them both coming undone, together, surrounded by one another.

"I'm not-"

"I don't care, I don't care, _just don't stop,"_ she panted against his mouth, and so Lucien threw caution to the wind and plunged into her without hesitation, harder, and harder still, and at last she seemed to shatter, a low cry leaving her lips as the movement of her hips stuttered to a halt, every inch of her body pressed hard to every inch of his, and the sudden vise-like grip of her sex against his cock broke what remained of his resolve.

With a few last powerful thrusts he tumbled from the edge himself, their voices mingling into one as he emptied himself inside her, trembling and burning alive with love of her.


	33. Chapter 33

_6 August 1959_

How long had it been? Ten minutes? Thirty? Jean had no idea, and her limbs were too heavy to move, and her heart too soft to muster the resolve it would take to force herself out of this position. They lay together, still and peaceful, Lucien's head pillowed on her stomach, her fingers drifting slowly through his hair, his eyes closed, his expression soft, and content, and untroubled by worry. The fierceness with which they had fallen together shocked her, now, as she realized how completely she had allowed herself to be swept away, how they had danced together on the brink of madness. She could feel him, heavy where he rested in her lap, sticky between her thighs, but she was too grateful for this chance to touch him to be uncomfortable just yet. The time for practicalities - and for worries - would come later. For now, this moment, she wanted to think only of him, returned to her arms at last.

"Tell me what happened in China," she whispered to him. There had been a sadness in him when he first came to her, a sorrow she had not expected after he'd spent more than a month away from her, travelling in a foreign land to see his child. She had thought, before he arrived, that he would be happy when he came back, happy to have been given this chance to reconnect with his daughter, hopeful for the future, but the truth stood in stark opposition to those expectations; he had not seemed glad, or hopeful at all, and she wanted to know the reason why. She wanted to soothe his hurt with her own two hands, to take the pain from him, if she could.

Beneath her hand Lucien frowned, but did not open his eyes. He turned his head, let his lips brush against the soft skin of her belly, and she fancied she could almost hear the whirring of his mind, the way his thoughts rolled over and over one another, trying to find the strength to give voice to words he did not wish to say. At last, however, he found his courage, and spoke.

"I saw her," he said, "my Li. She's beautiful. Twenty-three, now. She's married a fine lad, and they're expecting a baby."

"Oh, Lucien, that's wonderful," Jean sighed, and found quite suddenly that tears were gathering in the corners of her eyes. Not only had Lucien's daughter been found, but she was carrying a child of her own, a grandchild for Lucien to love as he loved his daughter. He had found more than just one wayward girl in Shanghai; he had found his family. Jean thought of her own granddaughter, little Amelia Jean, that precious girl Jean loved so well, and yet saw so rarely. It was a beautiful thing, to see one's children grow up and start families of their own, make lives for themselves, and it was a terrible thing to be so far away from them.

"She doesn't want to know me, Jean. She asked me to leave."

One of those tears escaped her, slid slowly down her cheek, joy turned to grief. That was the reason for his sorrow, then, the reason he had sought sanctuary in her embrace, the reason he would not look at her now. He was a stranger to his own child, and she did not want to know him. Life had been hard to Li, Jean knew, so long separated from her father, raised by strangers, reared in a country that might as well have been another world, compared to Ballarat. How strange must Lucien have seemed to her eyes, this tall, broad man with his carefully styled hair, his neat beard, his fine suit; what had Li seen when she looked at him? Did she think herself abandoned, did she think she had no need of him? Did she not know how long he had searched, how consumed his heart had been with thoughts of her for nearly twenty years? Or had her grief made her hard, unwilling to let him in lest he hurt her afresh?

Jean had raised two children of her own, had poured all of herself into loving them, and she knew she had received a gift that Lucien had been denied, to have kept her children close to her and not lost them to horror. But Christopher would not visit, and Jack…

 _He doesn't want to know me either,_ she thought then. Their stories were very different, hers and Lucien's, the paths they'd taken through life quite divergent from one another, and yet she understood his sorrow, at least in part, for she knew what it was to love a child, and be spurned by them. Jack would not answer her letters, and he never rang, as young Christopher sometimes did, had not darkened her door in years, and might not ever again. He was lost to her, out in the world, making his own way, and his mother grieved for him, and worried for the choices he'd made, just as she knew Lucien must worry for his Li.

"I'm so sorry," she told him softly, her fingers still carding gently through his hair. She was sorry, more sorry than she could say; his letter had been full of hope, and she could see now all those hopes had been dashed.

"I do have a photograph of her," he said, his eyes still closed. "It's in my wallet now. And she said I could write to her, if I wanted to. She doesn't want me to visit again, she seemed almost angry with me for turning up in the first place, but she's allowed me that much. I still have a chance, I think, to patch things up between us. Though for the life of me I don't know where to begin."

"You've made a start already," Jean assured him. "You went all that way just to see her. Surely she can see how important she is to you, how much you care."

Lucien's eyes finally opened, and he smiled up at her, softly, warmth and affection written in every line of his face.

"Yes," he sighed. "And I will write to her. There's so much left to say."

Jean knew a thing or two about that, as well. There were so many things she longed to say to her children, explanations she longed to give. Young Christopher disapproved of her work and Jack felt himself slighted at every turn and neither of them knew, truly, why she had made the choices she did. They didn't know how close their family had come to calamity, how Jean had done whatever she could to provide a good life for them, how she had come to the Lock and Key hoping to keep them fed, to give them a chance for something better than she'd ever had. And somehow she felt they didn't understand, truly, what losing their father had done to her; they'd been children when he died, and though they missed him, though they both grieved for him, she had never let them see how his death had nearly broken her in half. There was so much they did not know, and perhaps, she thought, the time had come to tell them, just as it had come for Lucien and his Li.

"How much time do I have left, Jean?" he asked her then.

Jean frowned; she did not want to think about that now. She did not want to shoo him from her room, did not want to clean herself up and go downstairs to make supper for the girls, did not want to sit in her corner booth and brood on Major Alderton's impending return, and the rejection she knew she must make, despite his appealing offer. All of those things, the bloody, practical details of her life, they left her feeling cold, and sad. It was Lucien she wanted, curled up safe and warm in her bed. It was this peace, this connection to him, the warmth of affection, the simple, open life of an ordinary woman she wanted. She wanted to cook a meal just for them, and sit beside him on the sofa, wanted a garden and a bed that was not meant for her alone. She wanted peace, but Lucien had asked, and in the asking had reminded her that such things were not meant for her.

Gently she reached out, caught hold of his hand and lifted it up so she could check his watch.

"You're ten minutes over time, Doctor Blake," she told him sadly.

The seconds had never moved so quickly, with any other man. Most of them didn't even need a full hour; they did what they came to do, and they left. Not so with Lucien, Lucien who seemed to fill every breath with the pursuit of her satisfaction as much as his own, Lucien who had surged within her, doing his best to hold off his own release for as long as he could, just to watch her, to be with her. She had never longed to stop time before, but for Lucien she would gladly have broken every clock and hourglass in the pub, would have cast his watch out the window and pulled him down to her if she could, if only she were brave enough.

 _The rules are there to protect you,_ Mrs. Harker had told her when she was just beginning. _Rule number one: you can always say no. That's to keep you safe, if you get a bad feeling about a fella. Rule number two: keep feelings out of it. Remember, Jeannie, this isn't love, or courtship, or walking out or anything like it. This is business. Even if a man promises to take you away and give you a better life, you must remember that's a promise he can't keep. You were a whore when you met him, and that's how he'll always see you. It'll save you some heartache, if you don't get too attached._

Jean had broken rule number two, she knew. It was too late to _keep feelings out of it;_ every time she looked at Lucien her heart swelled with love. He was a dear man, a sweet man, and he had never once treated her with anything less than respect. He fascinated her, enthralled her, drew her in as a moth to a flame, and worst of all she _wanted_ him. But what she wanted could not ever be; she could not be his wife, and likewise she could not let him take her over, could not lose her hard-won independence, the control over her own life she had worked so hard for. There had been a few girls, over the years, who had thought they'd found a way out, been set up in neat little flats or sprawling houses, made mistresses to one man and one man only, their every need provided for, and every one of those stories had ended in heartbreak, when the men grew bored, when they found a newer, younger girl, when they realized they did not have to pay the price of keeping up a mistress when they could marry a respectable lady and have their fun for free. Some of the men grew too controlling, believing they owned their new girl out right, taking and taking from her, tightening the noose around her neck, her new home a gilded cage from which there was no escape. Those girls had been lost to darkness, their hopes dashed, and Jean did not want to become one of them.

Already she allowed Lucien too much freedom. Had allowed him to have her too cheaply, to stay with her too long, had allowed him to have her without an appointment, to take her without a condom. Already she had given him too much of her heart. It was folly, to allow things to continue in this way. This thing between them was sure to end in tears and grief, and yet she had given him all these gifts willfully, with her whole self, for he had brought her joy when she had been so very long without it. The prudent thing to do would be to put an end to things between them, and soon.

 _But not just yet,_ she thought. Though she had told him his time was through Lucien had not moved, was only watching her, still lying comfortable and warm in her lap. They had spent such a lovely time together today, and his heart was hurting, and she would not make things worse by wounding him now. _Soon,_ she thought. _But not today._

"Off with you, then," she told him gently, her fingertips trailing against his face, taking some of the sting out of her words.

Lucien grinned, a bit ruefully, and pressed a kiss against her stomach before rolling away from her, rising to his feet and casting around in search of his clothes. All the while Jean lay, naked and warm and sprawled across her bedsheets, watching as he slowly dressed, hid his powerful, beautiful body from view. One piece at a time the expanse of his tan skin disappeared, until at last he was presentable - though he tucked his tie in his pocket, and did not bother to button up his waistcoat.

"How do I look, Mrs. Beazley?" he asked her, a note of teasing in his voice. And why shouldn't he tease her, she thought, why shouldn't he look happy; he had found his pleasure, and they had spoken softly to one another, and he had no idea of the dark thoughts that raced through her mind.

"You'll do," she answered primly.

Lucien laughed and crossed the room to stand beside her at once, leaning over her and pressing a kiss against her forehead, and the tenderness of that touch left her aching in ways she did not even want to contemplate.

"You stay there," he told her as she made to rise. "You look comfortable. I know the way."

And so Jean settled back against the pillows and watched him go, saw him smile as he closed the bedroom door behind him, and sighed, her heart heavy and full of grief.


	34. Chapter 34

_6 August 1959_

It was still mid-afternoon when Lucien finally crept down the back stairs of the Lock and Key, traipsing across the carpark and down a sidestreet before reaching his father's unpredictable old car. His stomach was rumbling, and while his wallet was significantly lighter than it had been when he'd arrived he had more than enough for a bottle of whiskey, a loaf of bread, and a few eggs. Lucien wasn't much of a cook, but he can manage a bit of toast and a scrambled egg or two, and that would see him through until the morning, when Mrs. Penny would restock the larder and take over the business of feeding him. It did not occur to him until he slipped behind the wheel of his car that he could have stayed for dinner at the pub; Jean served food and drink as well as... _entertainment,_ and he had gone round there many times before to purchase nothing more salacious than a pint of beer. Of course that had been _before;_ before he'd fallen into her bed, before he'd started to pay her for other, more interesting things, before he'd quite lost his heart to her. It had seemed easier, somehow, to make excuses for his behavior, to allow himself the delight of her company of an evening, when he was not a customer. Now that he was he avoided the pub except for their assignations, perhaps, in part, because of Matthew Lawson's warnings. When his motives were perfectly innocent he did not care who saw him there, but now that circumstances had changed he had begun to take more care, for appearance's sake.

And he liked that not one bit. Lucien enjoyed talking to Jean just as much as…the other thing, and she deserved better, he thought, than his sudden shame. Why shouldn't he go round just to talk to her, slide her shillings under the table and hear her sweet laughter? He cared for her - loved her, he knew - and he did not want to hide her, or limit their interactions only to the days he came to her with money in his pockets.

 _I'll visit again soon,_ he told himself as he drove into town, intent on purchasing the wares for his supper. His travels had been long and trying and he had over-exerted himself with Jean, and so now was looking forward to an early night. Perhaps tomorrow, or the next day, he could come round just to see her. It would be very pleasant indeed, he thought, to sit beside her, to watch her sipping her tea, to watch her perfect red-painted nails picking at a biscuit, to hear whatever she might be willing to say. There was very little in life more pleasant than a moment spent with Jean.

His errands took no time at all, and he soon pointed his car toward home. No one knew he had returned, just yet, no one save Mrs. Penny and Matthew Lawson; Lucien had sent him a telegram when his itinerary was in place, and it was Matthew who had informed Mrs. Penny her itinerant employer was returning, Matthew who had fetched him from the bus stop, brought him back home at last. Lucien realized as he drove that perhaps he ought to have Matthew round for dinner the following night, instead of trekking to the Lock and Key as he had been considering, but as he pulled his car onto the drive in front of his house he found Matthew already waiting for him, leaning against the back of his police car.

"This is a surprise," Lucien called to him as he stepped out of the car, turning to fetch his bundle before slamming the door. He had not thought to look for Matthew this evening, though he realized now he should have known better; Matthew Lawson was a good friend, and no doubt wanted to hear about Lucien's travels and see for himself that he was well. Lucien had been rather tight-lipped on the drive from the bus stop earlier in the day, his thoughts brooding on his daughter and Jean both, and he knew that Matthew was too much a copper to leave a question unanswered for long.

"I figured somebody ought to feed you," Matthew grumbled, "since you wouldn't let Mrs. Penny come today."

It was only then that Lucien noticed the little basket sitting on the ground at Matthew's feet, and he smiled.

"Bless you," he said warmly, reaching out to shake his friend's hand. "Now come on, come in out of the cold. I've got a little something for us to share."

He held up the whiskey bottle, and Matthew grinned, and followed him inside.

* * *

"So tell me," Lucien said as he leaned back in his chair, overfed and perhaps a touch tipsy and utterly content, "what's happened while I've been gone?"

Though it was barely gone five when he'd returned home he and Matthew had tucked into their supper at once; Matthew had bought their food at the local chippy, and they both wanted to eat while it was hot. The whiskey had flowed, as well, and they were both of them relaxed, enjoying one another's company immensely. Lucien could think of no better way to spend a day; he had seen Jean, held her, loved her, spoken to her, heard her soft voice, felt her gentle hands trailing through his hair, and now he had shared a meal with Matthew, and he could still taste the vinegar on his lips beneath the whiskey. He was _home,_ and he had come to terms with that, over the last month and more, had accepted that he belonged here, now, that he loved Ballarat, for all its shortcomings. There was nowhere else he'd rather be.

"Well," Matthew began, "there's a new pathology registrar. She takes some getting used to, but I think you'll like her."

"She?" Lucien asked, impressed. There was only one female doctor at the local hospital, and he knew the good old boys' club had made her life hell, on occasion. He admired anyone who was brave enough to pursue their passion in the face of animosity and ridicule, and this new pathology registrar had likely seen her share of both, for while women were slowly breaking into the world of surgery pathology remained, in his experience, starkly masculine.

"Dr. Harvey. Alice Harvey. She's...an odd duck. But she's damn good at her job, I'll tell you that."

"Good looking, too?" Lucien asked, raising an eyebrow insinuatingly at him. Matthew was an odd duck, too, Lucien thought, and he had been too long alone. It would be nice to see him settle down with someone, to know that he was not lonesome, to know that someone cared for him as he deserved.

Matthew scowled. "We're colleagues, Lucien," he said gruffly.

"I'll take that as a yes," Lucien answered, laughing. He took a sip of his whiskey, wondering if Matthew would use this as another opportunity to warn him away from the good-looking woman who'd caught his own eye, but mercifully he was spared such admonishment. Matthew simply took a drink, and then carried on with his accounting of events that had transpired in Lucien's absence.

"I'm sorry to say it, Lucien, but Nell Clasby has died."

The good cheer that had been slowly swelling like a balloon in Lucien's chest deflated suddenly, and grief roared through his heart once more. Nell was a dear, sweet woman, the kindly grandmother Lucien had never had, but always longed for. It was on account of Nell that he had even stayed on in Ballarat in the first place; she'd needed a physician, urgently, and he cared for her too deeply to leave her in someone's else's hands. It had all spiraled out from there; Nell had recommended him to other patients who had taken their business elsewhere after Thomas's stroke, and they came flocking back in droves. Nell was the one who had encouraged him to take over the police surgeon's role; _just while you're here,_ she'd said, looking at him with eyes that seemed to see already how life in Ballarat had begun to agree with him. He'd looked forward to his quiet chats with Nell more than any of his other patients. And now she was gone, and he hadn't even been able to attend her funeral.

"That's a damn shame," he said, a bit thickly. _I should have been here,_ he thought, _I shouldn't have been gallivanting off on the other side of the world. Li doesn't even want to see me, and maybe if I'd been here I could have helped Nell. Maybe I could have-_

"There was nothing anyone could have done, Lucien," Matthew said, demonstrating an uncanny ability to read his mind. "She was taking the medicine you prescribed for her. She had a massive stroke in her sleep. It isn't your fault."

_What if it is?_

"It's the nature of life to end, Blake. But you're a doctor, I suppose death is something of a personal insult to you."

"Only when it happens to people I care about."

_My father. My wife. Nell - bloody hell._

"I saw your old mate Alderton the other day," Matthew said then. Perhaps he meant to take Lucien's mind off Nell, to stop him brooding, and he succeeded in part. Lucien's natural sense of curiosity had him taking the bait at once, but thoughts of Nell would return when he was alone once more, he knew.

"What's he up to now?" Lucien asked.

"To be perfectly honest, I don't have any idea. I saw him in the Pig and Whistle last week. He was alone, out of uniform. Given how we left things the last time I saw him I didn't think it would be appropriate to start interrogating him right there. I left him to his pint."

Lucien chuckled darkly. Yes, they had not left things in a good place between them, the last time Derek was in town. Blame for the deaths of the morgue attendant and the theft of the soldier's body had been placed firmly on Derek's man Hannam, but Derek's justifications had been too smooth, his disappointment utterly feigned, and Hannam had been whisked away to face punishment at the army's hands - that is to say, Lucien knew, no punishment at all. Sergeant Hannam had been acting on orders, and they all - Lucien, Derek, and Matthew - knew that Derek was the one who'd given those orders. But he had slipped away, a big fish swimming into deeper, murkier waters. Thoughts of him unsettled Lucien, now. There had been a time when he counted Derek his best friend in all the world, when he had quite literally placed his life in the man's hands. But now Derek had become a company man, had lost some of his humanity in the pursuit of the government's goals. Hannam had even tried to kill Lucien himself, and deep in his heart Lucien knew it was Derek who had put him up to it. They had been brothers-in-arms, once, and yet he no longer recognized the man his brother had become.

"Maybe he just has some business on base," Matthew said slowly. "The Major's an important man."

"Maybe," Lucien allowed. Maybe it was only a coincidence, Derek returning to the town where Lucien lived a few days before Lucien came home from China. Maybe their paths would not cross; maybe that was for the best. And yet Lucien could not quite bring himself to believe that. They were too closely bound, Lucien and Alderton. There was too much unfinished between them; the matter of sending his right-hand man to kill Lucien being first on a list of many things he wished they could discuss. Was there some piece of Derek still in there, Lucien wondered, some part of that man who had supported him through three years of hell, kept him alive when their Japanese captors whipped him within an inch of his life, who had wrung him out after too much drink more times than he could count, who had covered for him when he was drunk and suicidal in China after the war? Where was that man, and could he be found again, could Derek be freed from the forces that had so twisted him? Or was it too late, was he too far gone down this path to ever be redeemed?

"Here's to old friends, eh?" Matthew said, raising his glass. Lucien lifted his own, and as they clinked together Matthew added, "may we never meet them again."


	35. Chapter 35

_7 August 1959_

Another Friday, another steady stream of customers, another evening spent watching the girls traipse up the stairs with men in tow, but this particular evening felt different to Jean, somehow. Perhaps it was her visit with Lucien the day before that left her feeling rattled and out of sorts; perhaps it was his sudden return and the accompanying uprising within her own heart that left a sour taste in her mouth.

 _I want you,_ she'd told him. Three little words she was not meant to speak, a longing she was not meant to feel, and yet he'd drawn it out of her just the same, the heat of his back beneath her palms, the strength of him between her thighs, the joy that he brought to her leaving her loose-lipped and unable to contain her own wild heart. To _want_ him was to admit that there was something missing from her life without him, and that was the first step down the path towards discontent and ruin. She knew it, had seen it happen to other girls in the past, had watched them go doe-eyed over some man who could never give them what they truly longed for, had watched them crumble when he left.

 _You have me,_ he'd told her. She could still hear the ragged sound of his voice, feel the warm rush of his breath against her cheek as he spoke. For an hour, for a moment, yes, she'd had him, but she did not have him now; he was nowhere in sight, and would not return until his wallet was replenished, eager to see the hourglass turn again. She did not have him when she slept, did not have a partner beside her while she worked; she had one small piece of him, and nothing more, and could not hope for better. A hundred times she'd had this argument out with herself, and a hundred times she had drawn the same conclusion. There was too much want, too much feeling between them; she must make an end to it, and soon, before they both lost too much of themselves.

Yet she did not want to do such a thing, not truly, and as she looked out across the dining room of the pub dark thoughts consumed her. The pub could be made respectable, if she wished. She could open her doors for lunch, could make a ladies' lounge upstairs, could sell nothing more salacious than a glass of whiskey; last call at six o'clock, just like the Pig & Whistle, send all the lads home with smiles and promises to see them tomorrow. She could elevate this place, could ask a few friendly gentlemen - Matthew Lawson, for one, one particularly friendly councillor for another - to frequent this place in search of no more than a pint, and let word of her change in profession spread. It was not the first time such thoughts had come to her, and now, as had always happened in the past, the counterarguments formed despite the protestation of her heart.

If the girls could no longer sell themselves here, they would find themselves in need of work. There was nowhere in town that would offer them as much pay as Jean did, and while some of them might accept this change in circumstances, might go to a factory in search of work, or stay on to help Jean as cooks and waitresses. But their rent would cost them more dearly, and they would not want to stay, and there were several of them who would leave her establishment only to go to someone else's, or take the risk of setting up shop for themselves. Without the income from their rent Jean's own finances would suffer; perhaps in time trade might pick up enough to make up for it, but while she waited for that she would be forced to deplete her savings, and the dream of moving to Adelaide, the garden and the time spent with her family, would be pushed back several more years. To stop this business would put her girls in danger, and risk the shattering of the one precious dream to which she still clung, after all this time.

 _Not if you accepted Major Alderton's proposal, though,_ a little voice whispered in the back of her mind. If she swallowed her pride and silenced her conscience and took his six hundred pounds she could easily turn the pub over to Maureen - at a loss - and still make her way to Adelaide, and be shot of the whole sorry business. Despite the practicality of such a plan, however, she had already made up her mind against him; the touch of Lucien's hand had decided matters for her. Jean no longer had to make such sacrifices to keep herself fed, and she would not do so now, not even for the sake of her own freedom. She could purchase her dream on her own terms, without stooping so low.

As if thoughts of him had conjured him on the spot the man himself appeared, marching smartly through the doorway as the little bell tinkled above his head, and Jean's heart sank. Major Alderton had come, and he would want his answer, and she could only hope that he would take the rejection with good grace, that he would not cause a scene. As she watched he made his way to the bar, not looking around, apparently in no particular rush to find her. He wasn't so very bad to look at, she thought as she watched him; his heavy grey jumper was finely made, and he was tall, and well-muscled despite his age. But though his appearance was hardly offensive, though he had been perfectly polite, still he left her feeling uneasy, for he knew things he had no right to know. He knew she had been purchased, and for how much; did he know who had paid her? And if he did, how had he come by that information, and what did he mean to do with it?

Maureen was behind the bar tonight; he said something that made her smile, and as Jean watched the girl handed two glasses off to him. He nodded to her, turned, and caught Jean's eye at once. The Major did not quite smile, but there was a calm, pleased sort of recognition in his gaze, and he approached her then, winding his way smoothly through the maze of tables until he stood before her at last.

"Good evening, Mrs. Beazley," he said warmly.

"Good evening, Major Alderton," she answered.

He was not so presumptuous as to take a seat beside her without being asked, but he did lean over the table, and carefully he placed one of those glasses in front of her, just beside her teacup.

"The young lady at the bar tells me sherry is your drink of choice," he said, by way of explanation.

 _I shall have to talk with her about this later_ , Jean thought darkly. It would not do, men buying her drinks in full view of the other customers, and Maureen should have known better. Or perhaps she did; Maureen did not approve of Jean's liaison with Doctor Blake, and perhaps this was her way of encouraging Jean on to other, less dangerous pursuits.

"That's very kind of you," Jean said, but she did not reach for the glass. His eyes flickered across her face, and she rather got the sense that he had noticed this, and did not approve of it.

"I'm wondering if you've had a chance to consider my proposal," he said. He took a sip of beer from his own glass, and then leaned against the side of the booth, neatly blocking Maureen and the rest of the pub from view. Jean did not care for that, either; she didn't like not being able to see her girls, and she didn't like the effortless way he'd trapped her here. There was a vulnerability in not being visible to others, and that vulnerability made her uneasy.

"I have," she said slowly. There was nothing else for it; her mind was made up and she did not intend to lie. "You've made a generous offer, Major Alderton, but I don't do that any more. I'm afraid my answer is no _."_

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it was not a pleasant sight, and Jean's heart constricted with fear.

"Six hundred pounds is not sufficient for an evening, Mrs. Beazley?"

"Money isn't everything," she answered carefully.

"An unusual sentiment coming from a woman in your line of work," he said. His tone was easy, untroubled, as if he felt he'd won this little battle of wills already, despite her rejection.

"Ladies' choice, Major Alderton," she said, bristling; it would be unwise to rise to the bait, she knew, and yet she did it just the same, for she did not care for his tone, or the way he continued to press her. "Every woman in this establishment retains the right to decide which man she'll have, and which she won't. I don't take customers, any more."

"What is Lucien Blake to you, then?" he asked shrewdly, and Jean knew then that she had been right to refuse him. Everything about him was wrong; his smile was grim, and he had too easily isolated her, and he knew too much about her life, her doings. Whatever his reasons for seeking her out might have been, he had just proved her suspicions; his proposition must have had very little to do with her, and everything to do with Lucien, and that made him too dangerous to entertain. There was so much about Lucien's life, his past before he came home to Ballarat, that Jean knew nothing about, and whatever he was mixed up in she wanted no part of it.

"You have made your proposal and you have my answer," she told him firmly. "I've nothing more to say to you. Good evening, Major Alderton."

Jean made to rise; though she did not appreciate being roosted from her position she knew the best thing for her now would be to make herself visible, to draw attention to her distress, perhaps to call Danny off the door to see the Major on his way, but she was prevented in her efforts as the man spoke again.

"Where is young Christopher these days?" he drawled slowly. "He's just come back from Korea, hasn't he? He must be glad to be back in Adelaide with that charming family of his."

"What do you want?" Jean asked, trying to keep the tremor from her voice, clasping her hands together in her lap to conceal their shaking. Jean had never in her life been as frightened as she was in that moment; this man knew too much, and his position in the military afforded him more power than one former whore turned brothel-keeper could match. He was taller than her, stronger than her, more respectable, and completely unpredictable, and the sound of her son's name in his mouth left her terrified.

"All I want from you, Mrs. Beazley, is one evening. I will pay you six hundred pounds, and you can use that money to move to Adelaide. A mother should be with her child. You could live quite comfortably there, and leave all this behind you. I'm offering you a chance for a better life, in exchange for your services, which you have provided to Doctor Blake far more cheaply than what I'm asking."

"And if I refuse?"

He grinned, tightly, and she shied away from that terrible grin, desperately trying to find some means of escape, and yet seeing none. He had snared her, a bird in a cage, and her heart pounded wildly in her chest.

"That would be unwise," he said. The threat remained unspoken; there was no need for him to be explicit. An Army officer, confident and cool, strong and self-assured, who knew where her son lived, no doubt knew what unit he served in, knew of his family - the possible forms his revenge might take were too horrific to contemplate.

"I can see you need some time to mull it over," he continued. "I'll leave you to it. But let's keep this between us, shall we? I'd hate for there to be any...misunderstandings."

Jean did not answer him; she couldn't seem to find the words. She wanted to shriek, to spit in his face, to claw that grin off his lips, but fear for her son held her in check. The Major had offered her a reprieve, however brief, and she knew it would be best to take it, to fall back and rethink her strategy.

"Be well, Mrs. Beazley," he said. The Major took another long drink, set his half-full glass down on the table, and walked away from her, his bearing proud. He did not pause, but went straight out the door and into the night, and Jean collapsed back against the booth, her thoughts racing.


	36. Chapter 36

_7 August 1959_

Lucien made his way to the Lock and Key on Friday evening with a spring in his step. It was just so bloody, marvelously wonderful to be home again; he'd enjoyed dinner with Matthew Lawson the day before, and Mrs. Penny had arrived in the morning, served him tea and toast and fussed over the state of his laundry in a delightfully maternal sort of way. He'd begin seeing patients the following week, and there was always a mystery right around the corner, and he intended to spend this evening in Jean's company. Nothing could be finer, he thought to himself, than to be in a familiar, comfortable place, to be cared for by people whom he cared for in turn, to feel as if there was a purpose to his life. Without Jean and Matthew he was certain that his daughter's rejection would have broken him in two, but they had made Ballarat a safe place for him to land, had welcomed him back and reminded him that all was not lost; they had both of them, in their own way, reacted to the news of Li's disapproval with a cautious optimism, reminded him that he had a chance to write to her, a chance, still, to put things to rights. All was well, and all would be well, that's what he told himself.

That's why he ventured out to the pub; though he would have liked, very much, to tumble once more beneath the bedsheets with Jean what he wanted more than that was simply to speak to her. To spend an hour, or two, sitting beside her, talking softly of their children. He wanted to tell her about Derek Alderton, the man he had been and the man he had become, and he wanted to hear Jean's counsel. He wanted to make her laugh, and see the sparkle of her eyes. If she had been any other woman he would have invited her out for a nice dinner, would have strolled with her arm-in-arm in the park, perhaps dared ask her to join him at home for a nightcap after, but she was not just any woman, and so he must meet her on her own ground, according to her rules. He would do so gladly, eager as he was for the chance to see her, and so he came to her with a pocket full of shillings and a heart full of hope.

It was hard to tell, he thought as he stepped through the door, as the little bell tinkled merrily above his head, whether the pub was doing good trade or not. There were three gentlemen sitting at the bar, and no more than six at the tables scattered round the room, though there were seats enough for thirty in that place. Elizabeth was behind the bar, and Lorraine was sitting at a table with a grey-haired gentleman, smiling at him warmly, but none of the other girls were anywhere to be found. Perhaps that was all the evidence he needed, as regarded the state of the pub's trade that evening; Jean had a dozen girls beneath her roof, and if he only saw two of them here it stood to reason the others were occupied, in which case business must have been going very well indeed.

He did not look around for Jean, for he knew there was no need; she would be installed, as ever, in her little booth in the corner, watching the evening's progress with a careful eye. No doubt she had marked his arrival, and he smiled as he approached the bar, thinking of Jean, and how completely he adored her.

"A pint, Elizabeth, if you'd be so kind," he said winsomely when he reached the bar, when the girl behind it gave him a smile.

"Of course, Doctor Blake," she answered, already moving to pour him a glass. "I've a message for you, now you're here," she added, one hand on the tap, one hand on the glass, her eyes watching him curiously.

"Is that right?" Lucien asked, intrigued. Was Jean not in the corner booth after all, then? He supposed he could turn his head and look to find that answer for himself, but he didn't; he wanted to hear what Elizabeth had to say.

"Maureen said that if you turned up tonight, I was to tell you to tread softly." She nodded discreetly towards the corner where Jean usually sat.

"Did she say why?" Lucien asked, perturbed now. It was not Maureen he had expected to leave a message for him; as far as he could recall he'd never said more than two words to the girl. Why should she offer him such a warning, he wondered, and would it spell an unhappy end to this evening he had looked forward to with such enthusiasm?

Elizabeth shrugged. "I've no idea," she said. "Just...be extra sweet tonight, Doctor Blake." She smiled as she handed him his glass, leaning over to add in a conspiratorial whisper, "we're all on your side, Doctor Blake. We think it's wonderful, you and Jean."

Before he could question her further another gentleman claimed her attention and Elizabeth danced away from him, left him to turn, somewhat wild-eyed, and make his way across the pub towards Jean. _Tread softly,_ he thought to himself. Was Jean unhappy? Had something happened to make her cross? And if it had, was it something to do with him? Had he offended her in some way? He dearly hoped not; they'd had such a lovely time, the day before, and he'd rather thought they'd even had a breakthrough, of sorts, when Jean confessed to wanting him, when he did his best to satisfy that want with all of himself. The warm, tender way she'd welcomed him, confessed to missing him, held him close had made him think that maybe, possibly, there might be a chance of him being more than a customer to her, in the future.

"Good evening, Mrs. Beazley," he said as he drew level with her booth, found her sitting with her knitting, the way she liked to do in the evenings. There was, as ever, a cup of tea and a biscuit close to hand, but to his surprise he found there was also a sherry glass sitting in front her, still full. It was not her habit to drink in the evenings; in point of fact he could not recall having ever seen her with anything other than tea, and he did not know what it meant, that she should make such a change now. He very nearly sat beside her there and then, but Maureen had urged him to caution, and he remembered how things had been in the beginning, when he never sat without being invited, and so held himself back.

Jean looked up at him for a moment, and he felt his trepidation only growing. There was no soft smile on her face, no crinkling warmth in her bright grey eyes, no indication whatsoever that she was pleased to see him. She only frowned, a furrow forming between her brows that he liked not at all.

"Good evening, Doctor Blake," she said, a bit coolly. Such treatment was so wildly different from the reception he'd received the day before that it left Lucien feeling a bit dizzy, and he shuffled awkwardly on his feet, unaware of the manner of his sin but knowing he must have done _something_ to perturb her.

"Might I join you?" he asked carefully.

"I think you'd better."

It was all the welcome he was going to get, and so he sat heavily beside her, plucked the hat from his head and placed it on the bench at his side, remembering how she'd disapproved of him setting it on the table.

"Jean-" he started to say, started to ask what was bothering her, but she cut across him at once, her voice low and yet full of fury.

"I don't know what games you're playing at, Doctor Blake, and I don't care. I want no part of this. I won't have you bringing trouble to my door."

Lucien turned to stare at her, utterly flummoxed. Beside him Jean was all but vibrating with a quiet, seething rage; he saw her hands tremble, but in the next second she had folded them in her lap, hidden them from view.

"I don't understand," he said, very slowly, trying not to let his anxiety and his urge to defend himself run away with him. _Games?_ He thought. _Trouble?_ He didn't have the first idea what she was talking about.

"Your friend Derek Alderton came to see me," Jean hissed, and then Lucien's own hands began to shake, and he was forced to place his glass down upon the table at once as fear filled him. When Matthew had mentioned Derek's return the night before Lucien had wondered whether Derek had come to see about their unfinished business, whether he could expect a visit from his erstwhile friend, but he had never imagined, not for a moment, that Derek might come _here_ , that he might cause some sort of trouble for Jean. The possible forms that trouble might take were varied and terrible to consider.

"What's he done to you?" Lucien demanded at once, a bit more sharply than he'd intended. "Did he hurt you, Jean? I swear I didn't-"

Jean raised her hand in a gesture that asked for quiet, and Lucien caught himself, stemmed the flood of his words while she looked at him, carefully, appraisingly, as if she were searching his face for some sign of dishonesty. After a moment she sighed, and leaned back against the booth, relaxing ever so slightly.

"So you do know this man?" she asked after a moment.

"Yes," Lucien answered at once. "We served together, during the war. But we've had a falling out; there was some trouble a few months back. Jean, I haven't spoken to him in months, I didn't even know he was back in Ballarat until Matthew told me last night and I certainly never dreamed he'd-"

Beneath the table Jean reached out and placed a gentle hand on his thigh, and once more he forced himself to fall silent. He did have a tendency to get carried away, when emotions were high, and it seemed Jean did not want his flood of words just now.

"He knows, Lucien," she told him softly. "About you and me. He knows you've been to see me, and he knows how much you've paid."

"How?" Lucien asked, dumbstruck at the very thought. He had told absolutely no one; Matthew didn't approve, he knew, and it wasn't as if he had many other friends in whom he would confide such a secret. Jean's work was illegal, and Lucien would not confess to his knowledge of it, would not dare risk her safety, her security by being so lax. Besides, his own reputation stood to suffer, as Matthew had pointed out to him many times in the past, and he was too comfortable in Ballarat to lose what little stability he'd gained.

"I was rather hoping you could tell me," she said. "You really didn't know?"

"Jean, I swear to you, I had no idea. He's dangerous, and I would never knowingly put you in danger, my darling."

The frown returned; he had forgotten himself, had let the endearment slip from his lips as natural as breathing, and he could tell from her expression that Jean did not approve of that, either.

"Did he threaten you?" Lucien asked quickly, wanting to put his lapse in judgement behind them, hoping to erase it from her mind, though he could tell by the way she looked at him then it would not be so easy, for her to forget that he had called her _darling,_ that he spoke to her far more fondly than any customer should.

"Not at first," she said slowly. "He didn't mention you at all, in the beginning. He tried to...buy me, for a night. He offered rather a lot of money."

"How much?" Lucien regretted the question the moment it passed his lips, and a wry sort of expression crossed Jean's face, told him at once she had no intention of telling him just how much Derek had offered.

"Rather a lot," she said primly. "When I refused him, that's when he mentioned your name. He mentioned my son, too. He knows where Christopher lives, knows about his family, what unit he's assigned to. He was not...he didn't say outright what he might do, but he made it very clear that things would not go well for me, if I refuse him. He said he'd come back, and he told me not to tell anyone. Have I been wrong to trust you, Lucien?"

Her eyes were wide, and scared, and Lucien's heart constricted as she spoke. The very idea of it, Derek coming to this place, trying to buy himself an hour with Jean - the thought of his hands on her pale thighs, his breath on her neck, her hips beneath him - turned his stomach. And knowing now that he had threatened not only Jean but her _son_ , that young man she loved so fiercely, the most important person in her world, set hatred churning within him. This place, this pub, this woman, should have been safe, should have been sheltered from the damage his past might cause, and yet Lucien had brought this grief to her door, and hated Derek, for being the harbinger of this disaster, and hated himself, for not protecting her from himself. She had risked so much, in opening herself up to him, and he wished he could have been better, for her sake. She did not deserve this.

"No," Lucien said at once, earnestly, covering her hand where it still rested against his leg under the table. "I will keep you safe, Jean," he told her then. "It's me he wants. I'll find him, and we'll sort this out between us. I won't let him hurt you, or Christopher, I swear it."

Jean smiled at him softly, sadly, and he knew then that she did not believe him.

"When did you see him?" Lucien asked. If Derek meant to come back Lucien intended to spend the evening sitting right next to Jean, would not dare let her out of his sight, not until morning came and he could go to the base himself, and dispense with the problem of Derek Alderton for good. How he would do such a thing he did not know, but he would gladly have strangled the man with his own two hands, in that moment, for threatening Jean, for the part he'd played in the death of those two soldiers at Anzac Day, for the way he had forgotten the ties of brotherhood between them and sanctioned the murder of Lucien himself.

"He just left," Jean said, and Lucien's heart threatened to pound its way out of his chest, then, so great was his distress. "About half an hour ago."

"Damn it all," he muttered under his breath. It was too late for Lucien to try to access the base; he would not be allowed through the main gate, and even if he managed to sneak through the fence he had no idea where to find Derek, and could not risk spending the evening sneaking around the base, avoiding the MPs. If Derek had left, with a promise that he would return, he almost certainly would not put in another appearance tonight. But what if he sent someone else? What if someone was even now watching the booth where he sat next to Jean? He'd warned Jean not to tell anyone, and she'd gone and told Lucien immediately; what if that news made its way back to Derek?

"What is it?" Jean asked him, her eyes searching his face, no doubt having taken note of his distress.

"It isn't safe for me to be seen with you," Lucien confessed. "Derek may have someone watching the pub. I don't think anyone's close enough to hear us now, but I can't be sure. We need to talk about this, Jean, but I don't think this is the time or the place."

Jean's gaze darted around the pub, no doubt taking note of the faces she saw there, how far away they sat, whether anyone was paying them too much attention. Long years of training in her chosen field had left her keenly observant and righteously cautious, and Lucien gave thanks for those traits now.

"They're all regulars, Lucien, I don't think we have to worry about them," she said softly. Lucien took that as a point in their favor, but just because there was no apparent threat now didn't mean that one wouldn't come walking in the door any moment, and Lucien couldn't bear to take that risk.

"Is the back door locked?" He asked her then.

Jean nodded.

"Good," he said. "Keep it that way. I'm going to leave -"

Jean started to protest, but he cut across her at once.

"I'm not going far," he said. "I'm going to watch the front of the pub. Ring Danny, and have him come and watch the carpark. I'll pay his wages for the evening myself."

"And then what, Lucien? You and Danny can't stay out there all night, every night."

"First thing tomorrow, when it's light, I'm going to have a talk with Major Alderton," he told her grimly, and Jean paled, her hand tightening its grip upon his thigh.

"Lucien-"

"I won't have this, Jean. I won't have you in danger. This is between him and me, and you never should have been brought into this."

"Promise me you'll be careful," she whispered to him then, and he wished, _oh,_ but he wished he could kiss her in that moment, could pull her into his arms and hold her tight, and never let her go.

"It will be all right," he promised. "I won't let anything happen to you. But I do have to go, now, just in case someone's watching. Behave as you normally would. I'll be right outside, and I'll keep an eye on you."

He started to rise but her hand on his leg stopped him, pulled him back down at once.

"You will tell me, won't you?" She said. "When this is over, you will tell me what this is all about?"

"I promise," he swore. "You deserve the truth, Jean, but now is not the time."

"All right, then," she said, and withdrew her hand at last. "You come back to me, Lucien Blake," she added.

Lucien smiled, relieved in some small part to know she did not hate him, had not written him off entirely despite the danger he'd brought to her door.

"Wild horses couldn't keep me away," he said, and then he rose, and left, setting his hat on his head and beating a path back towards his car. He had a plan, now, and a sense of righteous fury filled him; Derek had gone too far, in threatening Jean, and Lucien would not let such behavior go unpunished.


	37. Chapter 37

_8 August 1959_

Lucien passed a long and sleepless night behind the wheel of his father's old Holden, parked beside the pavement a hundred yards from Jean's front door. A parade of gentlemen had made their way through the front door of the Lock and Key that evening, but none of them were Derek Alderton. None of them were in uniform, either, and none of them struck Lucien as particularly unusual; they were local men, come to the pub on a Friday evening to satisfy themselves and return home poorer but perhaps happier than they had been an hour before. Lucien wanted to detest them, but he knew how much money he had passed from his own pocket into Jean's hand, and he knew he could not judge them for their choices, when he had done much the same.

Midnight came and went; someone locked the front door, the lights went out, and no further visitors came to call. The next few slow, dark hours of the night were the hardest to bear, for Lucien was left utterly alone, without even the distraction of a drunken pedestrian to occupy him, consumed entirely by memories, and by grief.

Why had Derek done this thing? That was what Lucien could not understand. Why come to the pub, why threaten Jean, or her child, why try to purchase an evening with her? What did Derek stand to gain, if she agreed? That was the part Lucien couldn't puzzle out. They had not parted on the best of terms, Lucien and Derek, but there had been no outright brawl between them, and he had thought their business settled when Hannam was remanded to face whatever paltry punishment the Army saw fit, when Derek disappeared back into the murky depths from which he had so recently resurfaced. Yes, Lucien knew of the part Derek had played in the plot at Anzac Day, but he hardly posed a threat to his old friend; if he'd been able to prove Derek's involvement he would have done it at the time. Why then should Derek come looking to upend his life now, four months later?

And why Jean? Why not come to Lucien directly; why try to buy her services, why swear her to secrecy, and not let word of his intentions get back to Lucien? What would he do, once he found himself alone with her? Did he have some terrible plan in mind, or did he only want to sleep with her, as Lucien had done? Rage filled him at the very thought of Derek's hands against Jean's pale skin; Jean was too _good,_ had suffered too much, and Derek had proven himself to be a danger. Jean did not deserve this, to be caught up in his machinations, to be used so cruelly. Memories Lucien had long since lost to time began to surface, then, coming back to haunt him as he sat alone in the car. Though he'd never been able to prove it, in the days before the war Lucien had begun to suspect that something was brewing between Derek and Mei Lin. A look held too long, the lingering brush of his hand against the small of her back, the pair of them laughing as they danced at a summertime party, before everything fell apart. Lucien had suspected, but never confronted them; he loved his wife, loved his child, loved his home and his life, loved Derek, too - damn the man - who was as good as his brother. There had been no cooling in Mei Lin's affections towards him, and then the war had come, and Mei Lin was taken from him and he and Derek had been plunged into hell and there'd seemed no point, at the time, in having it out with him. What did it matter, whether Derek had slept with his wife, when they were starving and beaten in the internment camp? And after, they had traveled Asia together, working in intelligence, and Derek had kept Lucien alive and aided in his pitiful efforts to find his wife and thoughts of betrayal had faded with the passage of time.

Oh, but he could see it now, playing like a film reel in his mind, the night of the party when he'd seen them dancing; he could see the twinkling lights, could smell the jasmine, could hear the shimmery sound of Mei Lin's laughter, bright and clear as a bell. Had Derek done this thing, all those years before, and was he looking to do it again? Was that the reason he'd sought Jean out, some dastardly attempt at revenge, taking out his frustrations with Lucien in the filthiest of ways? Somehow Lucien didn't think that could be all it was; somehow, he rather thought there was more to Derek's scheme. He did not yet know what that might be, but as the sun began to rise he tried to focus less on questions and more on devising a plan of attack.

Derek must have been close by. Matthew had seen him in town, and he'd been to Jean's a bare half-hour before Lucien arrived. The last time Derek had visited he'd stayed in a hotel, but instinct told Lucien that would not be the case, this time. This time, he had not come on official business - or at least, not only on business - and surely Hannam would be locked up somewhere. Derek would want the protection of a stout fence and a base full of soldiers around him, would not want to risk being caught out as he had been before. When the day broke it would be Saturday, but Lucien carried his official identification as police surgeon in his wallet, and he rather thought he might be able to bluff his way onto the base. They would not leave him to his own devices, but he imagined he'd be escorted to some office, to wait for the Major to arrive. And once he did…

 _Yes, and then what?_ He asked himself. Derek knew about young Christopher, where he lived, where he served, knew about his family, and Derek had told Jean not to mention his visit. Lucien's arrival at the base would give evidence of her disobedience; would that alone be enough to put Jean and her son in danger? Lucien had no proof of wrongdoing on Derek's part - the purchasing of a woman's body was itself not illegal, and no court would take the word of a madam over the word of a seasoned Army officer. There was no charge he could lay at Derek's feet, and while confronting him face-to-face might at least provide Lucien with some answers, he could not guarantee Jean's safety. The two thoughts twined within him, looping around and around one another, coiling tighter and tighter. He had to keep Jean safe; he had to know what Derek was doing. He was not certain he could achieve both goals.

And if their conversation should turn from words to blows, should Lucien's grief over the path his friend had taken, his remembered ire over the infidelity of his wife and his dearest friend, his rage at the thought of Derek taking Jean as he had taken Mei Lin, boil over into physical violence it would not only be his body that suffered. Striking an officer on the base, after lying about his purposes in trying to gain entry, in fisticuffs over a prostitute, would likely cost Lucien his position as police surgeon, and the damage to his reputation might spell an end to his practice. He might well ruin both his life and Jean's, should he go to Derek now.

But how could he stay away? How could he allow Derek to continue his games, with Jean his pawn? How could he sit back and bide his time when his heart was full to bursting with questions? He feared he would not know peace, until those questions had been answered. If it had been daylight when he first learned of Derek's machinations he would not have hesitated in seeking the man out at once, but the darkness forced him to bide his time, and all those long hours of waiting stole his sense of purpose, left him full of doubts instead.

As the first weak rays of sunlight began to filter through the window beside him Lucien stared out at the Lock and Key, thinking how much things had changed since he'd first walked through that door. He'd never anticipated, that dreary night in May, that he might meet a woman he adored as completely as he did Jean, that he might find some reason to stay in Ballarat, to be happy there, that he might find his child at last, and yet discover her cold and untrusting of him. He could never have imagined -

As Lucien watched, a man came marching swiftly down the pavement, heading straight for the pub. The stranger was dressed in a smart uniform, his posture rigid, his shoulders broad. Though he wore a hat Lucien could see the lad was too short and too young to be Derek, yet there could be no mistaking his destination, and in the next breath Lucien had leapt from the car, and chased off after him. It could not be a coincidence, he thought, a soldier making his way to the Lock and Key in the first light of dawn, when no one else would dare come to call, when Derek had been there only the night before. As Lucien ran down the pavement the lad drew level with the door, and knocked on it sharply.

"Oi!" Lucien cried, his voice ringing out above the sound of his shoes slapping on the pavement. The soldier looked up, startled; Lucien raced up the veranda towards him and the lad steeled himself, not running from a fight but preparing to face it head on, as any good soldier would. They crashed together with stupendous force; Lucien dropped his shoulder at the last second and slammed the lad back against the wall beside the door, setting the windows to rattling as he tried to pin the man's hands. The soldier cursed as Lucien knocked the wind out of him, kneed Lucien hard in the hip and struggled to free his right hand, desperate to get a crack in. They tussled together, breathless, for a moment, but then the door beside them swung open.

"What on earth!" Jean cried, and Lucien was so startled by the sound of her voice that his concentration slipped, and the lad wriggled from his grip, reversed their positions and forced Lucien face-first into the wall.

"I don't know what kind of place you're running here, lady," the lad growled breathlessly, "but I'm not looking for trouble."

"You've a fine way of showing it," Lucien grumbled, the bricks cold against his face. He did not try to free himself; the soldier had not tried to hit him or wound him once he gained the upper hand, only seemed to be trying to hold him still, and Lucien wanted to see what happened next.

"I'm just here to deliver a letter," the soldier answered. "You're Mrs. Beazley, then?"

"I am," Jean answered. Lucien could not see her, but he could hear the edge in her voice, and he knew then that he was in for a bollocking.

"Here," the lad said. There was the shuffling sound of paper changing hands, and then the soldier spoke to Lucien.

"You promise you won't do anything stupid if I let you go?"

"I do."

"Right, then."

All at once the soldier relaxed, and Lucien spun out of his grip, turned to face Jean. He tugged his waistcoat back into place, still breathing like a bellows, but the soldier was already walking away, his business done, no doubt glad to be shot of them both. A part of Lucien's heart wanted to race after him, demand who'd sent him and for what purpose, but he supposed the letter would be answer enough, and the young man was no more than a messenger.

"What on earth-" Jean started to ask again. Lucien took a moment to look at her, _really_ look at her, and despite the chaos of the last few minutes he couldn't help but smile. She wore a heavy pink chenille robe that covered her from throat to ankle, and her face was free from makeup, her hair adorably mussed as if she'd only just woken. She looked... _soft,_ and lovely, and her face was a welcome sight after a long night spent in the car.

"I think we'd best go inside, Jean," Lucien told her.

For a moment she looked as if she meant to disagree with him, but then she sighed, and held the door open wide in invitation.

"Come on, then," she said. "I've started the kettle."


	38. Chapter 38

_8 August 1959_

This was not how Jean had intended to start her day. She'd passed a long and restless night, tossing and turning, her thoughts a whirl of questions, about Lucien, about Major Alderton, about what he wanted and why he'd chosen to use Jean in his games. Lucien had seemed almost terrified of the man - _what's he done to you? Did he hurt you? -_ and that left Jean terribly worried, for any man who could frighten Lucien Blake was a man she did not want to know. It seemed she had been right to trust her instincts where Alderton was concerned, right to turn him down and send him away, but she did not know where his plot might end, did not know what would become of her, if she did not disentangle herself from Lucien as soon as possible. She had known, for weeks now, that she had no other choice, and Major Alderton's casual threats only served to remind her of the potential unpleasantness, should she continue on in this way with Lucien, no matter how badly she might wish things were different. There was so much she did not know about him, and she worried about what she might find, should these secrets continue to come to light.

And now this; Jean had risen early, far earlier than any of the girls, and slipped into her favorite faded robe, made her way downstairs intent on starting the kettle and fixing herself a bite to eat. Maureen was in the habit of waking early, too - in fact she was the only girl who ever showed her face downstairs before 10:00 a.m. - and Jean had been thinking perhaps they might enjoy breakfast together, the way they often did, and she'd been comforted by that thought. Yet no such domesticity was in the offing, for she'd heard a knock upon the door, and, troubled, gone to answer it, opened it to find Lucien scuffling with a soldier on her doorstep. Of all the reckless, thoughtless things he could have done - _what if someone sees?_ she'd thought; _oh, what if word of this gets around, Lucien brawling with some strange man in front of the pub?_ He was meant to be protecting her, and perhaps he thought he was, but the soldier had posed no threat, and Jean could only hope that none of her neighbors had been awake to witness his display.

"It has to be from Alderton," Lucien said as she led him back towards the kitchen. She shot him a dark look; of course the letter was from Major Alderton. There was no one else who would send a soldier, in uniform, to deliver a letter to her so early in the day. It was not Lucien's words that troubled her, however; it was the vacant, thoughtful look in his eye, the way he seemed consumed with thoughts of the letter, and offered no apologies for bringing such trouble to her door. The man did love his riddles, she knew; they'd talked about his cases often enough for her to see how he could be blinded to most anything else, when he was caught up in a mystery.

If he noted her expression he did not remark on it, and so she steered him towards the corner of the kitchen, to the two tall stools that flanked the edge of the worktop nearest the kettle.

"Sit," she said, gesturing towards the stools, and Lucien did as he was bid, his expression clearing somewhat as his gaze traveled over her. It was only then that Jean remembered she was wearing her pink robe over her nightclothes, and if she hadn't been so anxious she might have blushed. An entire drawer of her bureau was given over to a collection of racy lingerie, all silk and satin and lace, black and white and red, designed to be seen and promptly removed. But those things, like her short black robe, were reserved for customers, and had not seen much use over the last decade or so. At the moment she wore a long pink nightgown under her robe, soft and faded from time, and the hem of her robe was fraying, just a little, the fabric heavy, and warm, and soft, and not at all enticing. Men - especially men who'd paid her - weren't meant to see her like this; they paid for entertainment, for a dream, for a fantasy, not a woman fast approaching fifty, with wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, her lips too pale without her makeup, covered from neck to ankle and utterly without allure. Lucien didn't seem to mind the view afforded to him now - seemed to be enjoying it, in fact, if his soft smile was anything to go by - but Jean felt...vulnerable, somehow, as if him seeing her this way was more intimate than him seeing her naked. Perhaps it was.

"We should read the letter, Jean," he said then, and though his words were gentle there was a tone of urgency there Jean liked no one bit.

"Tea first," she answered, not daring to look at him. "The words won't change if we read them now or five minutes from now, and I don't intend to read that letter without a cup of tea."

She would have liked to put it off until she had a bite of toast, as well, but she knew Lucien might well explode from curiosity if she forced him to wait that long. Wisely Lucien chose not to protest, merely sat with his hands on his knees and watched her as she drew down two mugs, and the sugar bowl, faffed about with the tea and tried to gather her thoughts.

Why should Major Alderton send her a letter? She wondered. He had said he would come back in person, and she could not imagine what more he might have to say to her that had not been said already. What if Lucien was right, she wondered, what if someone _had_ been watching them, the night before, what if Major Alderton already knew that she had confessed all to Lucien, and meant to punish her for disobeying him? The thought filled her with a terrible dread, and slowed her movements as she poured the tea. She had known, from the very first, that Lucien Blake was trouble, but she never could have predicted anything like this.

At last she could linger no longer; with a sigh she handed Lucien his cup, took up her own and settled on the stool beside him. For a moment he watched her, his eyes bright and curious, but Jean paid him no mind, only crossed her legs demurely at the ankle, tugged her robe a little tighter around herself and took a long sip of tea. _There's no point in waiting,_ she told herself. _It's written already. What's done is done._

"Jean-"

"All right, Lucien," she cut him off. Gingerly she placed her teacup down on the worktop, and then pulled the letter from the pocket of her robe where she'd placed it for safekeeping. The envelope read _Mrs. J. Beazley_ in a great scrawling hand, but contained no address, no clue to the identity of its sender. Jean tore it open, and then pulled from inside a single, handwritten page, scratched out in the same untidy hand.

 _Mrs. Beazley,_ it began, _I much enjoyed our conversation, and I hope that after due consideration you find yourself more amenable to my offer. I would remind you again that the sum we discussed would be more than sufficient to set you up in a new life elsewhere, and I think you might find me pleasant company, for an evening._

How could it be, she wondered, that he could begin this letter so charmingly, as if nothing were amiss, as if he had not threatened her son beneath this very roof a bare twelve hours before?

_I regret to inform you, however, that I have been called away on business. The army has need of me, and I must serve my mistress faithfully, whatever she might ask of me. Do not think, however, that I have thrown over one mistress for another; my offer still stands, and I have every intention of returning so that you might accept. I have a very long memory, Mrs. Beazley, and the reach of my arm is vast. Who knows; this business of mine might even take me to Adelaide, and should I find myself there I can promise you that I will check in on Christopher and Ruby and dear little Amelia, and see for myself that they are well. Please do not worry for them; I will look after them._

Jean began to tremble, as she read those words, but the letter was not yet finished, and so she forced herself to read on while Lucien watched her in a tense, rapt sort of silence.

_I did ask you, Mrs. Beazley, not to mention my offer to anyone. You strike me as a clever lady, and surely you know that I have many friends, in all sorts of interesting places, and they tell me all sorts of interesting things. So long as this matter stays between us, you have no need to fret, but should word begin to get around I might have to take steps to protect my reputation, and the investment I have made in you._

_Be well, Jean. I look forward to our next meeting with much anticipation._

_Yours,_

_Derek Alderton_

Wordlessly Jean handed the letter over, and Lucien took it from her eagerly, his eyes darting across the page as he devoured the contents of the letter. With a trembling hand she reached for her teacup, took a long sip and tried to calm her racing heart. The threat of Major Alderton's return to the pub had been put off, then, but this news brought her no comfort. When she'd believed him to be close by, believed that Lucien could seek him out directly and draw their little battle of wills to a close quickly, she had thought herself nearly free from danger. Now, however, she did not know where he had gone, or when he would return, did not know if Lucien would be able to intercept him before he came marching through her door once more intent on collecting on his offer. There was no guarantee that Lucien would be there to protect her - and her home, and her girls, and her son and his family - whenever Derek Alderton resurfaced. Worry gnawed at her heart, left her anxious and out of sorts.

"Well," Lucien said as he finished reading the letter, "that was unexpected. Would you mind if I hold on to this?"

"You can do what you like," she said, a bit more sharply than she'd intended, and Lucien frowned as he tucked the letter into his pocket.

"This will be a blessing, Jean, you'll see," he told her earnestly. She couldn't have disagreed more, but he was not finished, and so she held her tongue for the moment. "This gives us time to come up with a plan. I still have some contacts in the army, I can make some discreet inquiries. We can warn Matthew Lawson, maybe he could -"

"Maybe he could what, Lucien?" she asked, exasperated, all thoughts of letting him speak his piece forgotten already. "Put a policeman in my pub every night? I'm sure that would be a great comfort to my girls, not to mention the customers."

Lucien's face fell; no doubt his words had run away with him, the way they so often did. No doubt he had not quite thought things through. Such eagerness in him was usually somewhat endearing, his enthusiasm often contagious, but just now it only left Jean feeling tired. Could he not see that she would be safer without him, that _he_ was the reason she was in this mess in the first place, and further meddling from him only increased the threat against her?

"I will keep you safe," he told her earnestly. "I promise you, I won't let -"

"Mrs. Beazley, is there anything for breakfast?"

As one they turned and stared as Maureen came shuffling into the kitchen. She was yawning, running her fingers through her riot of auburn curls, half-dressed in a black negligee with a silk wrap flung over her shoulders. As her yawn faded, however, she caught sight of Lucien and stopped in the middle of the room, pulling her wrap together over her breasts and eyeing him warily.

"I was just about to make some eggs and toast," Jean said, hating how Lucien's presence had made both she and Maureen uncomfortable in their own home. The kitchen at breakfast time was no place for a customer; he shouldn't have been there, shouldn't have been allowed to intrude on the ladies' private time, and yet he sat there just the same, broad and hulking and conspicuous on his stool.

"Right," Maureen said, her gaze flickering from Jean to Lucien and back again. "I'll go get changed and come back in a few minutes, then."

"Lovely," Jean said, and just like that Maureen was fleeing from the kitchen, and Jean was rising from her own stool, set on making breakfast just as she'd said.

"Perhaps it's best if I don't stay," Lucien said slowly.

"Perhaps not." Jean didn't want him to go, not really. There was so much left for them to discuss, so many questions yet to be answered, so many plans yet to be made. He had promised to tell her everything, about Derek Alderton and why he'd come to this place, but she knew no more about the man now than she had done the night before. The thought of his departure didn't sit well with her, not with so much unsaid between them.

"We do need to talk," he told her softly, rising from his seat and coming to stand beside her. No doubt remembering their previous conversation on the subject he kept his hands to himself, but he stood very close to her, and her eyes fluttered closed at his proximity, something very like self-loathing filling her, for she knew she ought to cut herself off from him entirely, and yet she longed for him so deeply it took every ounce of self-restraint she possessed to keep her from falling into his arms. "But not here," he continued. "There are too many people about, and we can't risk being overheard."

"Where, then?" she asked him. "This place is my home, Lucien, but it's my livelihood, too. There's nowhere else-"

"Come to my house," he said at once. "We know we won't be overheard, and if we're careful no one will see you."

Jean turned to stare at him, caught on the back foot by his impulsive request. She did not ever make - _had_ not ever made - house calls. It simply wasn't done. The girls weren't safe away from the pub, away from Jean's watchful eye and whichever lad she'd paid to guard the door, and once a man had a girl in his house he tended to want to keep her there, to use her however he saw fit, without concern for courtesy. The pub was safe, controlled; a customer's home was not.

"Lucien-"

"I'll pay, Jean. Come to me on Friday. Stay with me, the whole weekend. We can...we can talk, about everything. I'll answer all your questions, I promise."

A whole weekend with Lucien. Two whole nights spent in his home, sleeping in his bed, eating with him, waking beside him, giving no thought to the clock, or what anyone else might see. If he'd offered her such a thing the week before she would have leapt at the chance, but now she found herself hesitating. They were too closely bound already; he had called her _my darling,_ was watching her with hopeful eyes, now. How much harder would be it to put an end to their connection after knowing the comfort of his home, his bed, for herself? But he had a point, as regarded their safety; the pub was full of ears, at every hour of the day. There was always someone about, and there was no way to know who might walk through the door. And she wanted him; _oh,_ how she wanted him.

"All right," she said slowly, and watched his shoulders sag in relief.

"How much?" he asked. "For two nights?"

"One hundred pounds," she answered. It wasn't about the money; it never had been. She would have asked for nothing at all, but he'd offered, and in the offering reminded her that without the money this thing between them would become so much more than business. She needed the payment, to remind her of the rules between them; the amount was beside the point.

"Done, then," he said. "I'll send word to you before then. I won't risk being seen here. But I will keep you safe, Jean."

And then he leaned in, and brushed his lips against her cheek. "I'm sorry," he breathed, lingering there, close to her, his beard soft against her cheek.

"I know," she answered, her voice as soft as his own had been. She _did_ know; he had not ever willingly hurt her, but knowing that did not banish the grief from her heart.

For a moment they breathed together, still and silent, but then Lucien seemed to remember himself, and he turned away from her. Jean let him, focused her attention on breakfast, and refused to watch as he walked out the door.


	39. Chapter 39

_8 August 1959_

"Doc left, then?" Maureen asked as she came stalking back into the kitchen, wearing a pair of dark navy trousers and a loose-fitting blouse in place of the negligee she'd been sporting minutes before.

The sound of her voice startled Jean, helped her to shake free from the never ending circles of her thoughts twisting around and through one another, the tense battle between what her rational mind knew she needed and what her heart wanted put off, for a time, but not concluded. No victor had been named in that war, as yet, but Jean knew she was rapidly running out of time to make her decision.

"Yes," Jean answered, watching as Maureen took up the stool Lucien had only so recently vacated. At twenty-six years old Maureen was still so young, to Jean's eyes, but she was old for this business, had seen and endured more than any woman should before she'd even turned thirty. They were kindred spirits in that way, Jean and Maureen, for Jean had been a mother at twenty-one, a widow by twenty-seven, a whore by twenty-nine. She knew what it was, to grow old before her time.

But Maureen's face was lovely, still; her blue eyes sparkled, and her auburn hair shone, and there were no wrinkles around the corners of her clever mouth. The girl never missed a trick; her steady gaze took in everyone and everything around her, her quick mind storing every detail away, down payments on future returns. Of all the girls it was Maureen who seemed to like Doctor Blake the least, perhaps because she was the one who knew best how quickly a man's attentions could turn to ruin. She'd seen it often enough, over the years, and she could recognize the signs Jean's battered heart refused to see.

"Stayed the night, did he?" Maureen asked coolly.

Jean was still standing at the counter, putting the finishing touches on the eggs, two plates already piled with toast and a fresh cup of tea for Maureen ready and waiting. As she spoke Maureen reached for that cup, knowing it was meant for her; every time they enjoyed breakfast together - which was most every day - Jean poured her tea in the china cup painted with pale pink flowers. Jean herself preferred the blue one.

"No," Jean answered, wanting to disabuse her charge of that notion at once. "He just stopped in to say hello."

Another lie, another sin to repent the next time she went to confession. Lucien had taken the letter with him when he left, and while Jean had decided to take the risk and tell him the truth, she desperately did not want to lay her burdens on Maureen. The less people knew about Major Alderton's offer the better, she thought, and what Maureen did not know she could not be called to account for. The best way to keep her safe would be to keep her in the dark, and so Jean told her lies, knowing she would repent for them later but seeing no other way.

It would seem Maureen didn't believe her; the girl frowned, and took a sip of her tea, watching Jean closely. Men didn't stop in the pub at first light just to say _hello,_ not when Jean was still dressed in her frumpy pink robe and the front door was still locked from the night before, and Maureen knew it.

"You can tell me the truth, you know," Maureen said softly. There was something troubled, almost hurt in her tone, and it was Jean's turn to watch her, to take in the way Maureen stared sullenly at her tea, and wonder what it meant. What must be running through that girl's head, Jean wondered; what must this all look like to her? She knew that Jean had taken the Doctor on as a customer, and she knew that he came round in the evenings for tea and a chat more often than he came for...the other thing, and Jean could only imagine what sort of conclusions she'd drawn.

"Maureen-"

"You haven't taken a customer since I came here, Mrs. Beazley. And then the Doc shows up, and I know you're keeping secrets, and then there's those two Army blokes. Something's not right and if I'm going to stay here I want to know what it is."

The eggs were finished and so Jean took her time in serving them, trying to gather her thoughts. _If I'm going to stay here..._ did Maureen mean to leave her? She had no parents to speak of, had been raised by a cruel aunt she'd fled the moment she turned sixteen, had survived a few harsh years in Melbourne before she caught a train to Ballarat and turned up at Jean's door. No one else had ever looked after Maureen, and she'd learned early on to rely on herself, and not wait for someone else to save her. If she felt she could not trust Jean then yes, she might flee, and much as Jean longed to see Maureen settled in a happier, more meaningful life she did not want them to part on such terms; Maureen was as dear to her as her own daughter, and she could not bear the thought of bad blood between them.

"I don't quite know where to begin," Jean said, handing one of the plates over to Maureen. The girl placed her teacup on the counter and balanced her plate on her knees, picking idly at her toast. Maybe it would be better, Jean thought, if she told Maureen now. Maybe it would do her good to confide in someone, and at the very least Maureen could provide another set of eyes and ears in the pub. There was still the troubling matter of how Major Alderton had found out about Jean's connection to Lucien in the first place, and perhaps, she thought, Maureen might know a thing or two about it, might be able to provide some insight into how that had happened.

"Doctor Blake is just a customer," Jean soldiered on, settling herself on the stool beside Maureen with her teacup cradled in her hands. Though she'd made a bite of breakfast for herself she found she couldn't stomach the thought of eating, just now. "But you're right, I have allowed him some...leniency. I wouldn't have accepted just anyone and I think you know that."

"I do," Maureen said. "That's what worries me. There's no way this ends well, and I don't want to see you hurt."

The concern in the girl's voice quite touched Jean's heart, for while she had devoted herself to the care and keeping of the young ladies beneath her roof for years she could not recall when last anyone had worried about _her_.

"I can look after myself," Jean told her gently. "I will end it, if I think he's getting carried away."

_Only he's gotten carried away already, and I didn't end it at all. God help me, I don't know if I have the strength._

"And those Army blokes? I told you I didn't like the look of the one I had, and the other one came round again just to see you. I saw your face while he was talking to you. You looked scared."

Somehow Jean had quite forgotten that Maureen had been behind the bar when Major Alderton came round the second time. But of course she had been; it was Maureen who'd poured the sherry the Major brought to her table, the sherry she'd never drunk, knowing it had been paid for with his coin.

"Yes, I'm worried about those two," Jean allowed carefully. She didn't want to divulge too much, but she knew that Maureen would see through any further lies, and she did not want to risk alienating her, not now. "Major Alderton, that's the name of the man who was here last night. He wants to cause trouble for the Doctor. He found out somehow, about our appointments."

"But how?" Maureen asked, abandoning her toast in favor of winding her fingertips anxiously round the edge of her plate. "You were careful. We're the only ones who knew anything about it."

By _we_ Maureen meant every girl in the pub; they all thought it rather charming, Jean knew. The girls thought Doctor Blake was handsome, and they were not all as skeptical of romance as Maureen. The dashing Doctor sweeping the poor madam off her feet, taking her away to a better life; that was the kind of fairy story they told themselves, but Jean knew better, and so did Maureen.

"Someone must have said something," Jean told her. But who? And why?

"I'll bet it was Raine," Maureen said darkly. "She's taken a shine to that Lieutenant who comes round on Tuesdays. And that first time Doctor Blake came to visit, that was a Tuesday."

How on earth did Maureen remember that? Jean had forgotten it herself, the details of time and date seeming insignificant in comparison to the titanic events that had been unleashed afterward.

"Do you think you could find out for me? Discreetly?" Jean asked. "I don't want trouble, but it would help to know how the Major found out about...all this."

"Of course," Maureen answered at once. "If it was Raine I'm sure she didn't mean anything by it. She just likes to talk."

That she did, and Jean knew it well. But if Lorraine had said something to her Lieutenant, and he'd carried that news back to the base, Jean imagined it was only matter of time before someone else found out, someone a little closer to home; if Matthew Lawson ever learned what Lucien had done Jean was sure he'd be out of the police surgeon's job at once, and then what would become of him? His reputation in tatters, his livelihood at risk, and all because of her, because she wanted him too badly to tell him no; she couldn't bear the thought.

"I do have one more favor to ask," Jean told her then.

"Oh, I'd do anything for you, Mrs. Beazley," Maureen answered dryly. She would though; they both knew it.

"I need you to run things for me next weekend. I'll be gone Friday evening to Sunday morning."

"Gone?" Maureen repeated incredulously. Jean couldn't fault her for her disbelief; it wasn't as if Jean ever took a holiday. The Lock and Key was her lifeblood, the entire operation supported by her own two hands. Over the years Jean had never taken ill with anything more serious than a cold, and she had been known to sit sniffling at her booth rather than spend an evening away from her girls. But that had begun to change, as of late; she'd twice now asked Maureen to keep watch over the pub while she entertained Doctor Blake, and now she was asking for quite a bit more than an hour of Maureen's time. She'd have to oversee all the work on Friday evening, would have to make sure the girls got something to eat on Saturday, would have to sit idly by on the two busiest nights of the week, turning down her regular customers in favor of manning Jean's post in the corner. As much as Jean hated to ask this of her, however, she imagined it as a trial run of sorts. She was placing a great deal of trust in Maureen, leaving her in charge and unsupervised for so long. If Maureen handled it well, if she took to being _the boss,_ well, then Jean could rest assured that when it finally came time for her to step away from the Lock and Key for good she would be leaving it in good hands.

"I'll pay you a good wage for both days," Jean said, somewhat evasively.

"But where will you be?"

Jean should have known better than to hope Maureen would not press for details.

"I'll be with the Doctor. He has a phone, so you can ring me if there's trouble. I'll leave the number for you."

"You'll be at his _house?_ Mrs. Beazley -"

"I think this is the last time I'll see him, Maureen," Jean cut her off softly.

It had to be the last time; she'd come to that realization as they talked, the matter settled at last. Lucien was risking too much, carrying on with her, and she could offer him so little in return. He could hardly marry a whore, and she could not give him what he wanted. _You were a whore when you met him, and that's how he'll always see you;_ Jean could almost hear Mrs. Harker's voice echoing in her mind. Men came to her for one reason, and one reason only, and _yes_ , Lucien was good, and kind, and looked at her sometimes as if she were the most precious thing in his world, but deep down he was the same as the rest. _What if I don't want to save you? What if I want to buy you instead?_ He had purchased the use of her body, and while he had no doubt enjoyed himself Jean could see what he could not. This thing between them was exciting to him because it was illicit, and Lucien was the sort of man who needed that excitement, that risk, that puzzle to solve. He had not offered her marriage, after all, and what overtures he'd made outside their allotted hour had involved his hands on her hips, his lips close to hers, seeking that physical pleasure. Same as the rest. It was sex he wanted, she was sure, whether he realized it or not, not a grandmother fast approaching fifty who spent her evenings knitting and sipping tea. He would grow tired of her, and then what would she have left? When the bloom went off the rose, and she was left without the love he heart longed for, when all her worst fears were proven well-founded, she would be alone, again.

It would be best, for both of them, if this were the last time. They could make a plan to deal with Derek Alderton when he returned - Lucien would still want to confront the man, Jean was sure, regardless of the state of his relationship with her - and she could hold him, one last time, and then she could tell him, carefully, that the risks were too great, and her mind was made up. It would hurt, she knew it would, but it was better to hurt a little by her own choice now than to be shattered by him later.

At least, that's what she told herself.

Perhaps Maureen had heard the note of regret in her voice, for she did not protest any further. As far as Jean was aware Maureen had never felt anything for any man at all, had always guarded her heart so fiercely and laughed at the very idea of romance. She was steady, and practical, but there was a bitterness in her. If wishing could have made it so Jean would have given Maureen a love of her own, for she felt the girl deserved that much, to know what Jean had known, when she was young and lying next to her husband, the comfort, the security, the peace, that came with love. Those evenings when she'd been standing by the sink, washing up after supper, and her children had been playing at her feet, and Christopher had caught her by the waist, spun her in his arms and danced her round the kitchen while her heart sang with joy; _that_ was love, and Maureen had never known its like, and Jean never would again, and she grieved for them both, in that moment.

"I am sorry, you know," Maureen told her then. "For what it's worth. I know you...liked him. You deserved better than this."

"Don't worry about me, sweetheart," Jean said, fighting back a sudden rush of tears, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I've got you, don't I?"

"I think you're the only person I've ever really loved, Mrs. Beazley," Maureen told her then, and one of those tears did escape her, spilling silently down her cheek. "You deserve to be happy."

"So do you, love," Jean told her. Impulsively she leaned across and kissed Maureen's cheek, and then wiped her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. "Eat your breakfast," she said, then, trying to sound businesslike, trying to restore some sense of normalcy in the wake of their unusual candor. "Don't let it get cold."

Maureen smiled at her, and some of the grief in her heart lessened, then. It would be difficult, damn near impossible to let Lucien go, but it would be for the best. And in the end, Jean would still have her home, and her girls, and the life she'd made for herself, and surely, she told herself, that would be enough.


	40. Chapter 40

_14 August 1959_

Lucien prowled the perimeter of the parlor like a tiger in a too-small cage, puffing absently on a cigarette and trying to still the tremor of his hands. The cigarette was more of a prop than a necessity; he needed something to _do,_ some way to focus himself, and his anxious circuit of the parlor took him by the ashtray on the mantle above the fireplace every few paces, anyway.

The arrangements had all been made. He'd rung the pub on Tuesday afternoon - having obtained the number from Jean much earlier in their acquaintance, to spare them both the long uncomfortable silence that had followed their first assignation - and he and Jean had settled the details amongst themselves. Mrs. Penny had been instructed to depart the Blake house at noon on Friday, not to return until Monday morning, and she had done so gladly, though not before laying a large container of stew in the refrigerator, along with tomatoes and chutney, so that Lucien could make himself a sandwich. Lucien's skills in the kitchen were limited; he could manage toast and eggs, bacon in a pinch, a sandwich if the ingredients had already been purchased, but that was far as it went. No doubt Mrs. Penny knew this, and worried for him, and he appreciated her concern - and her well stocked larder - for it spared him precious moments he would otherwise have spent agonizing over how to feed Jean.

There was food, and whiskey, and wine, and a bottle of sherry purchased special, just for Jean. The only time he'd seen a glass of alcohol close to her hand it had been sherry, and he hoped that he had been right in assuming it was her drink of choice. Not that he had any intention of sitting around getting drunk with Jean - there was tea aplenty, as well - but he wanted, very much, for her to be comfortable here. In his home.

They had decided that Jean would join him at 5 o'clock on Friday evening, and stay until Sunday morning. It would be very early on Sunday when she left him, for Jean intended, as ever, to attend Sunday mass at Sacred Heart, but Lucien could not begrudge her an early departure when it was preceded by two blissful nights spent with Jean in his arms. Two nights without interruption - he had feigned regret when he cancelled his standing Friday night supper with Matthew, but if the superintendent suspected anything he had kept those suspicions to himself - two nights without a care for the hourglass, two nights, and one full day, to be spent, simply, with Jean.

Oh, there was much for them to discuss; he intended to tell her the story of Derek Alderton, how he'd met the man, how they'd come to be friends, how he suspected Derek of carrying on with his wife behind his back, how the war had banished any such concerns, how the camp had nearly been the end of them both, how they'd held one another together after, how angry Derek had been when Lucien chose to leave the army - to leave _him -_ and start afresh as a civilian. It would do him good, he thought, to spill that truth out at Jean's feet, and together they could devise some sort of plan, as regarded Derek and how they ought to deal with him. That particular question - _what on earth do we do when he comes back? -_ had plagued Lucien for days. He could hardly keep watch over the Lock and Key night and day, but he dreaded the thought of Jean facing Derek on her own, without him there to protect her. It would be no difficult thing for Derek to turn up in Ballarat and make his way to the pub before Lucien ever got wind of it, and what might happen then...well, it didn't bear thinking about.

 _But that's for tomorrow,_ he told himself, for perhaps the hundredth time. Derek would be a problem for Saturday; they could sit together on the sofa in the sunroom, could sip their tea and talk together, and pay no mind to anything but one another. Such troubles were best saved for daylight, and before they ventured down that road Lucien wanted, very much, to enjoy some time alone with Jean. When she arrived he planned to invite her inside, to give her a little tour of his home, to pour them each a drink to enjoy in the sunroom before eating dinner together. He'd never eaten more than a biscuit in Jean's company, and he was rather looking forward to the casual intimacy of sharing a meal with her, sitting together, smiling at one another across his table. Having Jean here, in his home, with him; what a beautiful thing that would be. Perhaps, he thought, it would be enough to show her how deeply he cared for her, how desperately he wanted her, how _good_ things might be between them. She held out no hope of a normal life, he knew, did not believe the normal rituals of courtship and affection applied in her case, but he rather thought she deserved such things, and he meant to show her over the course of the weekend that there might be another way for them, that perhaps circumstances were not so dire as she believed.

And so he smoked, and fretted, until the clock struck five, and in the next breath he heard the sound of a knock upon the door. _How very Jean,_ he thought; she had an inviolable sense of timing, honed no doubt through the course of her years with the Lock and Key, and she valued courtesy far too deeply to ever turn up late anywhere. Quickly Lucien stubbed out his cigarette, wiped his palms on the legs of his trousers, and rushed to greet his visitor.

When he opened the door he stood for a moment, looking at her, grinning like a fool. How lovely she was; she wore her pale pink blouse and smart brown skirt, and a simple gold necklace glittered at the base of her throat. She stood proud in her sensible suede pumps, her hair as neat and perfectly curled as ever, and in her hands she clutched a small fabric suitcase that looked as if it had not seen much use. She was _lovely,_ and standing on his doorstep, intent on spending the weekend with him; he could think of nothing better.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Beazley," he said winsomely, stepping aside and holding the door open for her.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Blake," she answered, smiling; oh, but he loved that smile.

She stepped through the door and he closed it smartly behind her, and then turned to face her, this lovely creature whose unexpected arrival in his life had changed everything about him for the better. No doubt she was waiting for some instruction from him; she stood still, both hands wrapped around the handle of her case, watching him hesitantly, though her smile remained in place. It was Lucien's dearest wish to banish any sort of uncertainty between them, and so he moved at once, and relieved her of her case.

"Allow me," he said, relieved when she relinquished her hold on it without a fuss, "let's just pop this in here, shall we?"

His bedroom was just _there_ , and so he opened the door, and stepped inside to stow her case out of the way. Silently Jean stepped up beside him, and he paused for a moment, wondering what she was thinking; her eyes scanned the room, taking in the mess of his dressing table, his heavy wooden trunk, his bed with its neat navy coverlet. What did she see when she looked at this room? he wondered. Did it meet with her approval? Had he made a grievous misstep in assuming she meant to spend the next two nights in his bed? They had agreed to meet to discuss Derek Alderton and yet no word had been spoken regarding any other business, he realized suddenly with some alarm. She had charged him no more for two nights than she had previously done for one brief hour; did she not intend on...were they not going to…

"Is everything all right, Lucien?" Jean asked him gently.

He smiled at her, a bit tightly, not wanting to give voice to the thoughts that consumed him.

"I'm just so very glad you're here, Jean," he said, and then he took a chance, and leaned across to brush his lips against her cheek.

Jean wrinkled her nose.

"You've been smoking," she said. There was a note of disapproval in her voice, but her eyes were sparkling with mirth, and he relaxed ever so slightly, relieved to hear her teasing him.

"Guilty," he answered. "But I won't, if you'd rather I didn't."

"I never cared for the smell," she told him, and he filed that information away, intent on humoring her, and not offending her again.

But no further words came to him, then. They had made it this far; she was standing in his bedroom, and the sun was still shining brightly through the windows, and he had hours upon hours to spend with her, and so very many things he wanted to do, but he hardly knew where to begin. What if she didn't want to see the house, what if she didn't want a drink, what if she didn't mean to sleep with him at all, what if she simply wanted to discuss Derek and then take her leave, what if he offended her now and ruined this beautiful dream before it had ever even begun?

"Lucien," Jean said his name softly, and then she reached out, caught hold of his hand, and gave him an encouraging smile. "Will you show me the rest of the house?"

If she would have let him he would have kissed her lips in that moment, but he remembered the rules very well, and so only lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her there gently in a gesture of gratitude and affection. It seemed her plans, at least for now, were right in line with his own, and he marveled at that, how well they seemed to fit together already.

"I'd be delighted to," he said.

And so he did.

* * *

Anxiety nipped at Jean's heart as Lucien led her through his home, despite her best efforts to keep it at bay. This night, and the following day, and the night after that, this was all the time she would have left with him, and she tried to tell herself to relax, to enjoy it, to save her worries for later. But oh, it was hard to put off her concerns with his fingers laced through hers, his eager smile taunting her. It was plain to see that Lucien was glad to have her here, and despite her grief over the impending loss of him Jean found that she was glad, too, that she had been given this chance to enjoy him, one last time.

The house was overwhelming, though. The perimeter was surrounded by a stout fence, planted with tall green hedges, and an imposing wrought iron gate opened onto the drive. The grass was green and bright, and now that she was inside it seemed as if the house went on forever. The little house she had shared with Christopher and her boys, that place she always thought of when she thought of _home,_ was not half the size of Lucien's residence. His little bedroom had seemed modest enough, but then he led her upstairs, and she passed from room to room, wide-eyed and somewhat alarmed. No one had slept up here since the district nurse moved out, but each bedroom was fully furnished, the shelves stacked with books and knick-knacks. After that he'd taken her downstairs, showed her the sitting room, the parlor, the kitchen, the locked doors to the room he'd referred to as _the studio_ with a note of longing in his voice, then the surgery, the reception area, his own office, until they made their way to the sunroom and finally stopped while Jean tried to calm her racing heart.

It was a beautiful home, but far too much space for one man on his own. It was no wonder, she thought, that old Doctor Blake had taken on boarders; he must have felt like a solitary pea, rattling around in an empty pot. Lucien, though, had done no such thing, and he lived alone in this palatial home, with no one to share it with, and seemed completely blind to the opulence of it all. He had two bathrooms, when Jean's old farmhouse had boasted none at all inside, and that kitchen...oh, it was the sort of kitchen she'd dreamed about, when she was young. The sunroom was beautiful, too, though the trellises and tables stood empty, no plants in sight. She could see the back garden through the glass walls of the sunroom, the disused flowerbeds beside the neatly tended grass, but Lucien did not seem to spare a thought for the grim sorrow of a bare patch of dirt, seemed utterly unconcerned that this home, with all its promise of life, stood so unfulfilled. It was, she thought, a troubling reminder of the differences in their stations, and an unwelcome one.

It wouldn't do to let herself be consumed by such thoughts, and she knew it. It wasn't her place to dream about how this house could be made into a home, and it wasn't her place to worry for Lucien, trapped alone inside it, and it didn't matter, really, if he never recognized the gift he had been given in this house, or how he had let it go to waste. Come Sunday it wouldn't be her place to think of him at all, and so she only squeezed his hand, and returned his smile when he caught her gaze.

"I was thinking," he said. "It's a lovely afternoon. Would you care for a drink, before dinner?"

"That would be lovely, Lucien, thank you," she answered as warmly as he could.

"Just a moment, then," he said, and slipped away from her, and she let him. It would be nice, she thought, to sit on that sofa and share a drink with him, watching the early evening sunlight filtering through the trees. It would be nice, and she would enjoy it, and the rest of her worries would keep, a little while longer.


	41. Chapter 41

_14 August 1959_

"My compliments to your housekeeper," Jean said, smiling. _Oh,_ but she had the most beautiful smile.

They were sitting together comfortably at his table, their bowls empty, their glasses nearly so. They had enjoyed a wonderful stew courtesy of Mrs. Penny, and a rather wonderful evening of conversation courtesy of Jean's gentle wit and easy manners. The longer they sat together the more natural it became, simply to _talk_ to one another; Jean had told him a little of her girls, what sort of women they were and what sort of hijinks they got up to when no gentlemen were around, and Lucien had told her a little of Matthew, and the new pathology registrar Doctor Harvey, a slightly odd but by all accounts incredibly skilled woman whom Jean had said she'd quite like to meet. Had circumstances been different Lucien would have arranged the introductions with all haste, for he thought they might actually warm to one another, these two ladies who while very different shared a cleverness and a curiosity about the world, but he remembered himself and held his tongue, and salvaged their delicate rapport. Such moments were inevitable; little reminders of the life Jean led and the restrictions placed upon her person as a result lay scattered like landmines all around him, but so far they had dodged them all neatly, and were getting along quite well with one another.

"I would promise to send her your regards, but I think she might faint dead away if she found out I'd spent the weekend alone with a woman," Lucien told her.

A misstep, perhaps, to raise the specter of Mrs. Penny's disapproval, but Jean glossed over it smoothly, no trace of disappointment on her face.

"Best to spare her the shock," she said, still smiling. If she were smiling Lucien supposed nothing could be amiss, and so he relaxed once more.

The meal was winding down; the food had been quite good, and he'd been perhaps a bit heavy-handed with the drinks, and they were both of them warm and content. The sun had slipped below the horizon, and the world outside his kitchen door was all in darkness. It would be hours yet before either of them were ready for sleep, and while Lucien knew very well how he would prefer to spend that time he was in no particular rush to take Jean to bed. Sitting with her was lovely enough all on its own, and the anticipation of what was to come was delicious in its own right.

"Do you cook much, at the pub?" he asked her curiously. He rather thought she must have done, at least a little, for while he knew that she employed two young ladies to handle the food for the customers he had seen her serving her girls lunch with her own two hands when her cooks were not in residence. The food must have come from somewhere, and he quite liked the idea of Jean being the one to make it, sustaining those women she loved so deeply with the efforts of her own two hands.

"I do," she allowed, taking a sip of her sherry. "Breakfast and lunch, every day. I know it might be terribly old-fashioned of me to say but I rather enjoy it."

Perhaps it was terribly old-fashioned of her, but Lucien liked it just the same. Jean liked her knitting, and she placed a great deal of importance on manners, and she took pride in caring for the people she loved. There was an elegance about her, a goodness that called to him, made him want to prove himself worthy of her time, her affections.

"Do you?" he asked, wanting, very much, to hear her speak a bit more about herself. The question seemed to catch her off guard, as if she had not been expecting him to care at all about what she enjoyed or why, but he rather got the sense it was a pleasant surprise.

"Well, yes," she said. "It's...it can be familiar, chopping things, mixing things, all the little steps. But it's...well, there's a sort of magic to it. Taking all these different pieces and making something new, something that can feed people, and make them happy, everyone sitting down together and sharing a meal. Cooking always reminds me of my mother, and the time we used to spend together in the kitchen. And it makes me think of my boys, too."

Jean's boys, young men now, out in the world and far from her side; what would they be like, he wondered, should he ever meet them, these young men she adored so completely despite their apparent disinterest in returning to her? She must have led quite an old-fashioned life, before the war, he realized; living on a farm, tending to her family, she probably spent most of her day in the kitchen, cooking and cleaning and chasing after her boys. And it seemed to him that she lamented for it, the loss of the life that had been.

"My wife wasn't much of a cook," Lucien said, the words tumbling out of his mouth without any conscious direction from his mind. Jean didn't seem to take offense at this reference to his past; she sat straight-backed and proud in her chair, still, but she was watching him, her eyes warm and bright over the rim of her sherry glass, and her attention encouraged him to continue.

"Her family was quite well off, her father was part of the local government in Singapore. They always had servants, and Mei Lin wasn't encouraged to do any sort of housework. And of course I never learned, myself. We would have been quite helpless, left on our own."

Jean hummed, and smiled, and he wondered what she was thinking, whether privately she thought him a fool for being so incapable of looking after himself. It never seemed to matter to anyone else - indeed most people seem to take it as a given, that Doctor Blake would not know how to cook his own meals or wash his own laundry - but somehow it seemed to matter to him, now, sitting with Jean. Jean who was so capable, who was so skilled at so many things, Jean who was dependent on no one at all save herself, and had done a fine job of making a life all her own, free from the input of others.

"But I will have you know, Mrs. Beazley, I'm quite handy at breakfast time."

While he was at university one of his lady friends had taken pity on him, and taught him a few different ways to cook eggs. _Every gentleman ought to know how to cook a proper breakfast,_ she'd told him. _And any woman who finds herself in your home come morning will be grateful for the effort._

"I look forward to a demonstration of your skills tomorrow, then," Jean told him archly, and then laughed at the shocked expression on his face. He had of course been planning to cook for her come morning, but he had not been expecting her to tease him about it, and he found himself quite delighted.

"First, I think we ought to take these drinks and go somewhere more comfortable, eh?" he asked. They could retreat into the parlor, he thought, and he could turn on the wireless, and they could listen to the music, and talk, and maybe, if he was very lucky, they might even dance. It was a prospect he looked forward to eagerly.

"Oh, Lucien, we really ought to see about these dishes first."

Before he could protest she had risen smoothly from her chair, gathered up her own spoon and bowl, reached for his without hesitation, balancing the lot of it with all the easy grace of a woman long accustomed to service.

"Please, Jean," he said, standing up himself. "I don't want to put you to work, the dishes can keep-"

"If we leave them in the sink all night I'll know they're there, and I never approved of a messy kitchen. It will only take a moment. And it'll be faster if you help."

There was no arguing with her, and so Lucien joined her at the sink, took up a clean dishrag and leaned against the counter with his hip brushing hers.

She really was quite lovely, up close like this. The little wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and lips were soft and warm, added a gentleness to her delicate features. Her soft, dark hair fell charmingly over her pale forehead, and the simple golden necklace she wore drew his attention to her collarbones just beneath the open collar of her pale pink blouse. _Lovely,_ he thought, smiling. Everything about this moment was lovely, and tender in its easy familiarity. Jean handed him a dripping bowl and he took it without need of further direction, dried it carefully and tucked it into the cabinet, turning back to her just in time to receive the next offered dish. She was right; it took no time at all to clean the paltry remains of their meal, and when it was through she took the rag he offered her, wiped her hands dry with a satisfied sort of smile on her face.

"There," she said. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Not at all." On impulse Lucien leaned in and kissed her cheek once, softly, and smiled at the warmth of her skin beneath his lips. He wanted her; with every piece of himself he wanted her, but they were in no hurry tonight and so he did not push for more, did not draw her into his arms or try to steal a proper kiss. Instead he stepped away, retrieved his whiskey glass with one hand and held the other out to her.

"Now then," he said. "Come with me."

She arched her eyebrow at him, curious, but did as she was bid, taking up her own glass before lacing her fingers through his own, allowing him to lead her into the parlor.

"You have such a lovely home, Lucien," she said as he gestured for her to sit on the sofa; she settled herself there comfortably and Lucien himself went to see about the wireless.

"My father always did have a taste for the finer things in life," he told her. Thomas Blake enjoyed expensive scotch, and expensive art, had brought home a beautiful Parisian bride when no girl in Ballarat had ever caught his eye. His hand-tailored suits were exquisite, and the handle of his cane was ivory. The house, the car, the sofa and the matching armchairs; all of it had been Thomas's choice. Lucien wouldn't have picked any of it, but he found himself growing more comfortable in his father's life by the day.

By some stroke of luck the moment the wireless clicked into life the strains of _As Time Goes By_ began to fill the room, and Lucien smiled, thinking how perfectly everything seemed to be falling into place. He wanted, very much, to dance with Jean, and he could think of no finer tune to compliment such an endeavor.

"Dance with me, Jean," he said, setting his whiskey down on the sidetable and approaching her at once, holding his hand out to her.

She smiled up at him, radiant in the dim light from the lamp, and his heart began to race as she took his hand, let him help her to her feet, let him pull her in close. It was not the first time they had danced, and they fell together more easily now than they had done before; his right hand wrapped around her left, his left at her hip, her right settling against his back, her chest against his chest, their hips slotting into place. Slowly he began to lead her, swaying, her feet following his gracefully. After a moment Jean sighed, and seemed to melt against him, and he pulled her closer, turning in a slow circle there in the parlor while the music washed over them. He could just catch the faintest hint of her soft floral perfume, and the warmth of her in his arms soothed him, filled him with hope.

"This is wonderful, Lucien," she whispered, turning her head, letting her cheek rest against his shoulder while still they swayed, softly, her hair tickling his chin.

" _You_ are wonderful," he told her. For she was; she delighted him, inspired him, comforted him, and he could not recall having ever felt quite so complete as he did now, with her in his arms.


	42. Chapter 42

_14 August 1959_

"Oh, _god,"_ Jean moaned, hardly able to contain the sounds of her own pleasure as she lay amidst the tangled mess of Lucien's sheets, his head buried between her thighs. The evening had led them easily from the parlor to his bed; they had danced together, one song flowing gently into the next, until the tension of their proximity and the anticipation of what was to come snapped their self-restraint, until he gathered her into his arms, laughing, and carried her here, to his bedroom. Their clothes lay scattered in a heap at the end of the bed, the pair of them completely bare, now, save for the little gold necklace that still sparkled at the base of her throat. Lucien had so far been relentless in his attentions; no doubt he was relieved to find himself alone with her and utterly unconcerned by the ticking of the clock, for the way he ravished her now was slow, unhurried, and she delighted in it, and him. She stroked the fingers of her right hand gently through his soft blonde hair, and her left was pressed hard to the headboard, using it as leverage to help her grind her hips ever closer to his questing mouth.

 _Oh,_ that mouth, full of clever words and a clever tongue, those soft lips that could smile at her so warmly, could undo her so completely. His mouth teased her, claimed her, consumed her, and she gave herself over to it, to him, to the feelings he inspired in her. The warmth and wet of his mouth, the delicate scratch of his beard against the most tender part of her, the strength of his hands wrapped around her thighs, holding her to him, forcing her from bliss to bliss with each strangled breath she took; she had never known anything more beautiful than this, and in this place where she need not worry who might overhear she let her voice carry as loud as it would, let him hear the sound of her whimpers and moans, the sound of her begging for him.

Against her Lucien grinned, and released his hold on her thigh so that he could join his hand to his lips in their pursuit of her pleasure, Jean trembled as two of this thick fingers slid into easily into her wetness, curling against her and sending her careening maddeningly towards a shattering ecstasy. No coherent words could form in her mouth; there was no thought in her head, only the wild beating of her heart, the clenching and tightening of her body around him, the desperate gasps he tore out of her with every thrust of his hand, every pass of his tongue against her. Onward he went, unceasing, and at last her release washed over her and a cry like that of some wild bird escaped her, but Lucien was not finished; he continued on mercilessly, his fingers curling inside her, his palm grinding against her tender folds, his lips wrapped around the bundle of nerves at her center, his nose buried in her dripping folds, and Jean was flung from pleasure to pleasure by the current of his will, bearing her ever onward.

She felt as if she might fly apart; her fingers abandoned his hair as she pressed both of her palms to the mattress, her body twisting into a graceful arch as still he urged her onward, and she let him, hardly able to breathe at all now, what little air she could draw in leaving her in a steady, desperate whine. It seemed he knew what she was capable of, what heights of bliss he could bring her to, and he seemed bent upon his task, devoted entirely to the ragged, wretched ecstasy of her body beneath him, and when she shattered the second time she went boneless and limp, shuddering as she collapsed against the mattress, and still he kissed her, and the only thought in her head was how badly she wanted those lips of his pressed hard to her own.

But Lucien knew the rules, even if Jean herself had nearly forgotten them in the moment of her rapture, and he did not slide up her body to let her drink the taste of herself from his tongue. Instead he held his fingers fast within her until she relaxed enough for her body to release its hold on him, and then he shifted just enough to bless the points of her hips with kisses, each in turn, a gesture of benediction, full of the kind of affection she knew he harbored for her, the kind of affection she knew she could not ever claim for herself.

"Lucien," she whispered when at last she found her voice. He was resting his head against her soft stomach, watching her over the rise of her body, his eyes warm and soft and full of love. Already her breasts were reddened and tender from the heat of his mouth, already she had mapped the plane of his chest and the thick column of his throat with kisses, already they had spent an hour in his bed together and had countless more to enjoy without need of interruption, and her heart was full, then, with grief as much as with love. He had left her dripping and aching for want of him, and though she could not see him she knew he must himself be hard as marble and desperate for his own release, but he had waited for her, had rested in the cradle of her hips and let her body calm and quiet before rushing to the next pleasure, in no apparent hurry to seek his own gratification. For a moment she considered returning the favor, taking him in her mouth as she had done once before, but she was exhausted, and full of longing for him, and besides, she knew there would be further opportunities for such endeavors. Perhaps it would be best to save that particular act for the morning.

"Come here," she breathed, and he did at once, stretched himself out along the length of her body, holding his weight off her with his hands pressed to the mattress by her head. He bowed his head and let their noses brush together, and she smiled at the quiet tenderness of such a gesture, even as she lifted her trembling legs, let his hardness settle against her glossy folds and ran her hands over the ruins of his back. They had shared so much with one another, and the scars beneath her palms and the unselfconscious way he let her touch them were a gift all on their own, a reminder of his trust in her, and hers in him. If only trust alone was all they needed to carry them through this life, she thought.

Some gentlemen preferred a more exciting experience, when they paid for a woman. Some wanted her atop him, doing all the work, some wanted her on her hands and knees, her face hidden from them as they sought to fulfill their own desires, some wanted things their wives could not even imagine, and Jean had seen most every possible configuration between two people over the course of her work. In this moment, though, she did not want to rise above him, or roll away from him, did not want his heat at her back or the strain in her thighs as she rode him. She wanted him just like this, above her, surrounding her, wanted to see the heat and the want in his eyes, wanted to rock against him and feel his powerful body surging within her, and so she did not wait, or give any thought to rearranging them.

"Jean," he whispered, the word a gentle kiss against the rise of her cheek.

"Yes," she answered, sighing. "Yes, sweetheart."

The word left her before she even realized what she'd said, before she could think better of speaking to him so tenderly, but he had called her _darling_ already, and she lay in his bed, not her own; the lines between business and love had blurred so completely that in the moment she quite forgot herself. Lucien smiled, and kissed her cheek again, and then shifted his hips while another little sound of want passed her lips at the press of his cock against her oversensitive flesh.

He took himself in hand, and slid into her slowly, gently, their mouths almost touching as they groaned together at the sensation. No other customer had ever touched her so deeply, her heart as well as her as body, and perhaps it was her heart that made her feel as if he were the most beautiful man she'd ever known. He sank against her and she canted her hips to meet him until he filled her most completely, and banished her grief, for however short a time.

There were benefits, Jean had found, to age in men. A young man might recover more quickly, and find his pleasure more than once in an evening, but an older man could hold out longer, and devote himself more entirely to his lover's pleasure. There was no need for a second showing, when the first was long and intense, and it was that intensity he gave her now. His eyes bore into hers, her hands wrapped around the solid muscles of his forearms, as his hips rocked against her, slowly, slowly, her body arching in time to the rhythm he set, their chests rising and falling as they breathed in sync with one another, lips nearly touching, hearts racing. As he built her up, higher and higher, he freed one of his hands, slipped it between them to touch her where she needed him most, fingertips slipping through the wetness of her as still his cock plunged into her, again, and again, and when she shattered he groaned, delighted, but did not falter, only carried on, determined.

" _Lucien,"_ she gasped, his name the only word her lips could form, " _Lucien."_

He did not answer her, only continued on, until she lost all sense of time and place, for how many minutes she could not say, nor could she care. Slowly, slowly, he moved within her, and was rewarded for his patience by the way she took him in, by the expression of bliss upon her face, by the softness of her breasts against his chest and her voice crying out his name until at last such patience seemed to desert him, and all the power and fervor of him came to bear against her. His hips slammed into her again, and again, the thrust of his cock within her driving her ever closer to the brink of madness, the wet sounds of their union echoing through his bedroom until Jean could bear it no longer, and fell apart, almost sobbing her relief as she clenched down hard against him. Lucien swore, undone, and thrust against her in a frenzy until he, too, found his release, groaning long and slow and deep as he spilled himself inside her.

When he collapsed against her Jean only sighed, his length still buried within her fluttering heat, and held him close while he pressed tender kisses to the curve of her neck and her body trembled with love of him. They stayed like that a good long while, holding one another, panting, her toes brushing against his calves while her hands soothed the sweat-slicked skin of his back, while her heart thundered in her chest, until at last she found the strength to move.

Gently she kissed his temple and rolled away from him, left him lying on his belly, watching her with hooded eyes, exhausted and yet smug, somehow, as if he were as pleased with his own performance as Jean was herself.

"I'll only be a moment," she told him, and then she made her way out of his room on silent feet, naked as the day she was born, the mess they had made together sticky between her thighs. While Lucien had given her a tour of his home she had made a special point of remembering the location of the downstairs bathroom, and it was there she went now, intent on a bit of cleanup. It was reckless, she knew, to let him enjoy her without any sort of protection, but she had enjoyed herself, too, and such worries could keep for another day. But as she entered the bathroom she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and was drawn up short by her own reflection. Clearly she could see the mark of his mouth against her breast, her hair mussed from his attentions, her eyes still hooded from recent pleasure, her face seeming to glow with the joy he had given her. The joy he had given her so freely, and which she meant to cast back into his teeth come Sunday. Was it wrong, she wondered now, to let him shower her with such affection when she only meant to part from him? Was it unfair of her to hide the truth, to use this time to commit him to memory while allowing him no such grace? Jean knew in her heart she was saying goodbye to him each time she touched his skin, but she had allowed Lucien no such chance for closure.

As those terrible thoughts swirled through her mind the door behind her opened, and she turned to find Lucien standing there, smiling at her. He too, was naked, his spent cock hanging heavy above his thighs, his eyes watching her so full of delight.

"I was thinking," he said as he prowled slowly across the room, pressed himself against the length of her back and lowered his lips to her ear. "The bath is big enough for two, if you're so inclined."

She could see that indeed it was, and while she had been looking forward to a few minutes of solitude in which to collect herself now it seemed to her that nothing would be finer than to sink beneath the hot water of a bath with his strong arms around her, banishing her guilt and her doubt for a little while longer.

"I think that's a fine idea," she told him, and he grinned, and so they began, again, to fall together.


	43. Chapter 43

_14 August 1959_

Lucien was sure he had not ever felt more content in all his life. His muscles were heavy and loose, the strain of holding himself together for the sake of Jean's pleasure having been soothed entirely by the warmth of the water lapping gently at the sides of the bathtub. He was leaning back, his head resting against the edge of the tub, and Jean was in his arms, her head against his shoulder, the soft skin of her belly warm beneath his hands. She lay in the cradle of his legs, his knees bent on either side of her body, the supple curve of her bum enticing against his - unfortunately - spent cock, and the room was quiet, and still, steam still lingering in the air, fogging the mirror above the sink. It was not terribly late, yet, but he was tired, and satisfied, and he wanted for nothing, in that moment.

In fact, he was quite sure that Jean had fallen asleep, so complete was her silence, so relaxed was her body, nestled there with his own. _Let her sleep,_ he thought, _let her rest, for she is safe here, with me._ It was all he wanted in the world, to have Jean _safe_ , and with him, and he would not dare disturb her, not for any reason. The days were long at the pub, the nights longer still, and Jean worked hard every moment, he knew. Even when she sat for long stretches at her post in the corner of the dining room she was tense, alert, her hands constantly moving and her mind cataloging every face she saw, every word she heard, constantly weighing the probability for danger and mindful always of her girls and their safety. Here, she need not worry. Here, Lucien could shelter her, provide for her, watch over her, in ways he could never dream of doing at the Lock and Key.

It was foolish, he knew, to think such things. The pub was Jean's lifeblood, the center of her world, dear to her as a child, and come Sunday she would leave him for it once more. Come Sunday he would not be able to enjoy such pleasures as he had this evening, could not share with her a quiet drink, or a quiet meal, or a tumble in his bed unhindered by the passing of the sand through the hourglass. It would be back to business, constantly on the lookout, purchasing her company one hour at a time. That was a bleak thought, but he banished it with more hopeful imaginings. Perhaps, he thought, this weekend could be about more than just devising a plan to deal with Derek Alderton. Perhaps this was his chance to show her how happy they might be together, how comfortable they could feel with one another, a chance to catch a glimpse of a future they might share, together, far away from the darkness of the world that she had known for so long.

Oh, it would not be easy to convince her, he knew. They had met in May, and it was only August; they had known each other for far too short a time, and Jean would not trade away her independence and the life she'd made for herself for the sake of a man she'd known a bare few months. But perhaps this might be a beginning, he thought; perhaps he could plant the seeds of his love of her within her heart now, and slowly water them over the coming weeks with all the steadfast affection he felt for her, until those seeds could bloom into joy, and love.

He loved her, of that he was certain. _Only fools rush in,_ that was how the old song went, and he knew he was one of those fools, knew that she had captured his heart the moment he first saw her, despite the precarious nature of their circumstances and all the threat for catastrophe that came with their connection to one another. And yet he could not doubt that the way he felt for her, this warmth, this yearning, this contentment at having her near, was love. Jean was not a fool, and she would not give herself so freely, but he likewise knew she would not be here if she did not feel _something_ for him, would not have allowed him access to such much of her private self if she did not trust him already. What she needed, he thought, was a little bit more time, and he was content to give her as much of it as he was able, to be there for her, always, until she came to believe, as he did, that they were made for one another, that they could have a different life, a better life, together.

And so ran the course of his thoughts, until the last of the heat seeped from the bath and he began to think longingly of his bed. Slowly, teasingly, he dragged his hand across the softness of her stomach until he was cradling her breast in his hand. Perhaps she was not asleep as he had thought, for the moment his palm brushed against her soft pink nipple she hummed, and turned her head to press her lips against his neck.

"Come on then, my darling," he said softly. "Time for bed."

Jean hummed again, but did not protest, only sat up straight, stretching her arms above her head, the catlike movements of her lithe body making his heart sing as he watched her. Without the warmth of her against his chest he was quite cold, however, and so he clambered somewhat awkwardly from the bath, reaching at once for a towel. While he dried himself Jean drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, watching him fondly from her position in the bath.

"I've been wondering," she said then, and though she looked as tired as he felt her eyes were sparkling with mischief. "You're in rather fine shape, for a doctor."

Lucien smiled at her, running the towel over his damp hair and affording her an unobstructed view of his body, scars and all. He knew that she was teasing him, knew what she was asking him, but much as he wanted to join her in her levity the answer was actually rather grim, and he was hesitant to give voice to that truth. But she deserved it, he thought, this woman who had so tenderly touched his scars, treated every piece of him and his history so gently, and he wanted, very much, to share himself with her.

"There was never enough food to eat in the camp," he told her softly, and though her eyes went wide - with horror or compassion, he could not say - he forced himself to continue. "And I was kept in...a very small space, for a very long time. By the time the war ended we were all quite weak. I never wanted to feel that way again. I got myself back into fighting form as soon as I could, and it just became a habit, I suppose. Though Mrs. Penny's fine cooking is beginning to take its toll," he added ruefully as he tied the towel round his waist. He had followed a strict regimen, after the war, and stuck to it as best he could, supplemented here and there with chopping wood for the fire and the like, but his belly had grown soft, as he himself had grown soft, here in the comfort of Ballarat.

He reached out his hand and Jean took it, let him steady her as she rose to her feet and then stepped carefully from the bath.

"I like you just the way you are," she said, one hand coming to rest against the slight roundness of his stomach, the other reaching up to muss his damp hair, a fond smile on her lips.

"And I very much like you," Lucien said, letting his own hands ghost over her shoulders, down along the elegant curve of her spine, "just the way you are."

He kissed the tip of her nose, and she smiled, but then she shivered and Lucien remembered that she was dripping wet and stark naked in the chilly bathroom air, and he reached at once for a towel. Gently, reverently he dried her off himself, let his hands wander over all the sweet, soft parts of her with which he had become so well-acquainted, and when he was done he was more certain than ever that he loved her, most completely.

"Let's go to bed, Lucien," she said into the stillness, and so he smiled, and took her hand, and let her lead him back to his room.

* * *

Jean woke first; it was to be expected, she knew, for the habits of a lifetime were hard to break and she had always been an early riser. What had been unexpected, however, was how well, how deeply she had slept, with Lucien there beside her. When they first lay down together she was certain she would not sleep a wink, for the troublesome thoughts that plagued her, for it had been so very long since last she'd fallen asleep beside anyone; she was quite certain she had forgotten how. And yet it seemed she had been wrong on that score, for one moment she had been lying on her back, listening to the gentle sound of Lucien breathing in the darkness, and in the next the first light of dawn was streaming through the crack in his curtains, rousing her softly into wakefulness.

They had twisted and turned together in the night; Lucien lay flat on his back, snoring lightly, and Jean had wrapped herself around him, one arm thrown over his chest, her leg cast over one of his strong thighs, her head on his shoulder. That arm would surely pain him when he woke, Jean knew, and while she felt a bit guilty about that she could not deny that she was really quite comfortable, surrounded by the heat of him. They had fallen asleep completely naked, the nightdress Jean had brought for the occasion left unused and unneeded in her case by the door.

For a moment she considered leaving his side, wrapping herself in the fine navy dressing gown that hung on the back of his bedroom door and padding silently from the room. She could go and make herself a cup of tea, and watch the sunrise from his lovely garden. It would be a pleasant way to pass the time until he woke, she thought, but she did not want to leave him just yet. Besides, Lucien had promised to make her breakfast, and she did not want to deny him the opportunity to wake with her beside him, to charm her with his easy smiles and dash off to the kitchen. No doubt it would alarm him should he wake alone, and she did not want to cause him any distress. Not just now. Not yet.

Softly Jean sighed, lifted her hand and let her fingertips dance light as a feather across his lips. Lucien did not move when she touched him, and so she let the pad of her thumb come to rest against his chin. He really was a beautiful man, she thought, and he had been so kind to her, so lovely in every possible regard, that the thought of leaving him seemed laughable. How could she even consider giving this up, she asked herself, this handsome man, this rich man, this man with his fine home crying out for a woman's touch, this man who could promise her the world, this man who had done nothing but try to care for her? What sort of a fool would she be, to walk away from the joy he promised her, the warmth of his hands, the tender welcome of his home?

 _The wise sort,_ she thought. It was only a dream; she had woken in a moment of bliss, but such bliss was not meant to last. It was only the first blush of love, the heady early days of any romance when both parties were conciliatory and enraptured, and it would not stand the test of time. He would grow bored with her, or worse confess that he had no intention of making any sort of commitment at all, and only wanted to take his pleasure when it suited him without the trouble of having a woman underfoot. He had dangerous enemies, and a tendency towards recklessness that would no doubt soon grow weary of her staid ways. _It will not last,_ she told herself. _Better to end it now, before things get out of hand._

She would leave him, come Sunday, for the last time. But she had one whole day and one night left to spend with him; they could talk about Derek, and make their arrangements, could touch one another to their heart's content and then when the sun rose again she would rise with it, would make him tea and tell him softly that whatever they wanted could not ever be. She would tell him how much she had enjoyed - not enjoyed but _loved -_ every moment spent in his company, how he was not to blame for her decision to leave him, how she only wanted to do what was best for both of them, and spare them each the coming heartache. He might not believe her, might rail against her, but once the thing was done it would not matter, really, whether he hated her or not. She would not see him again, in any case.

Jean was torn from her musings on the futility of her heart and the beauty of his face by a rather more pressing need, and so she slipped silently from the bed, pulled on his dressing gown and made her way to the loo. The dressing gown drowned her completely, and smelled softly of him, and she took comfort from the warmth of it. They had a little time left, still, and when she finished in the loo she would slide once more beneath his sheets, and hold him. It was enough.


	44. Chapter 44

_15 August 1959_

Wakefulness came upon him slowly; it was not the sunlight that drew him up from dreams, nor the slamming of a car door outside or the call of a bird, nor was it the sound of Mrs. Penny fussing about in the kitchen. What it was he could not say, entirely, only that as he came back to himself he was flooded with warmth, and contentment, and when he sighed happily and turned his head, when he opened his eyes at last, he found himself face to face with Jean and nothing in all the world could be finer than that.

She was still lying beside him, but while he was still as naked as he had been when they fell asleep the night before she was wrapped in his own navy robe, and the sight of her delicate hands reaching out to him from beneath the too-long sleeves, the way the fabric parted and left an enchanting swath of her chest and the tops of her breasts bare filled him with a possessive sort of awe. Jean looked small, and lovely, and she wore _his_ robe, was lying in _his_ bed, and oh what he wouldn't give to keep her here, to have her with him always.

"Good morning," she whispered, her grey eyes travelling over his face, her face soft and somehow vulnerable - and all the more beautiful - without her usual makeup. Lucien could not help but smile, and since she was _his,_ for an entire weekend, since they had no reason to concern themselves with anything outside his bed, he did not fight his impulses and instead reached out, let his fingers trail against her cheek, rising up to brush back the fall of her dark hair from her forehead.

"Good morning," he answered, his voice low and hoarse from sleep. The air was still, the winter sunlight wan and pale; it could not have been long past dawn, but Jean was awake already, had risen from the bed at least long enough to slip into his robe, but she had not left him there, had returned to him instead, had _chosen,_ of her own accord, to lie down once more beside him, and that, too, was a beautiful thing. There was a reverence in him this morning, a sense of something truly monumental taking place here in the quiet between them. They were utterly unconcerned with anything save one another, and he was content.

"How did you sleep?" she asked him softly, and while his hand occupied itself with her hair her own reached out, gentle fingertips tracing the line of his beard, an expression on her face which he thought - he hoped - mirrored the awe, and the hope within his own heart.

"Quite well, actually," he confessed. And wasn't that strange, for Lucien could not recall when last he'd slept _well;_ most nights he drank more than was wise before bed, and that did not make for a pleasant evening, and sometimes he still woke shouting in the dead of night, alone, with no one there to comfort him when the terrible dreams of days gone by plagued his heart. Not so, last night; he had not been drunk when he slipped beneath the sheets, and he had hardly moved a muscle, so complete was the peace that consumed him. She was a tonic, was Jean, the only thing he'd ever found with the power to heal his wounded heart.

"And you?" he asked, because he felt that he must, and Jean smiled fondly at him.

"Quite well, thank you, Doctor Blake," she told him. Her hand abandoned his face to drift instead over the plane of his chest, and the touch of her fingers against his skin reminded him forcefully that he had woken hard and hungry for her. In fact he would like nothing better than to roll her beneath him, to once more pour upon her every ounce of the affection he felt for her, but he could not say for certain whether she would be amenable to such activity first thing upon waking. He did not wish to ask her outright, but his need would not sustain him through a long seduction, and he wondered, for a moment, what course he ought to take.

He need not have worried about Jean's sensibilities it would seem, however, for her hand drifted down low on his belly even as she flung one lean leg over his thigh, and he realized she was still naked beneath the robe the same moment her hand settled upon his aching hardness.

Jean grinned, watching him as he shivered at her touch, as his head snapped back against the pillows and a low groan escaped him. _That's that settled,_ he thought, and though he longed to kiss her he settled instead for rolling himself over her, his hands reaching for the tie of the robe even as his lips descended upon her neck, and she sighed, and touched him, and they delighted in one another then.

* * *

It was, he thought, quite the most marvelous morning he had known for some time. Peeling the folds of his own robe away from Jean's skin, watching as she was revealed to his hungry gaze, taking her then while her arms were still tangled in the robe and her lips were pressed against the column of his throat and they both of them gave themselves over to joy; he could imagine no finer way to start the day. Once they both recovered their breath Jean had tightened the robe around herself and slipped off for the loo, and so Lucien had tugged on a pair of sleeping pants and padded into the kitchen shirtless, intent on making breakfast.

He set the kettle to boiling first, knowing Jean would want her tea, and then he rummaged through the kitchen, gathered a bit of bacon and some eggs and some bread for toast, and though he never would have confessed to such a thing if pressed he was in fact whistling while he went. They had one entire, glorious day to spend together, and one night and one morning yet to enjoy before Jean left him for the pub, and all those hazy hours of indolence and comfort stretching out before him left him delighted and relieved. His body was loose and sated, his movements relaxed and unhurried, his thoughts focused, most entirely, on Jean and what they might do together.

They would have to speak of Derek, he knew. That was, after all, the reason they had arranged this weekend in the first place. But not just now, he thought, not at breakfast, when the day was only just beginning and he fancied he could almost feel Jean still wrapped around him. There would be time enough for Derek later; this moment, this morning, was for _them._

"So you do mean to make breakfast, then."

Lucien whirled away from the stovetop, an egg still clutched in his hand, and found Jean leaning in the doorway, still wrapped in his robe, smiling at him fondly. _What a picture we make,_ he thought; his own hair was a riot from sleep and the touch of Jean's hands, his chest bare, his feet equally so, and Jean; _oh,_ Jean was a vision of decadent loveliness, swaddled in his robe and brushing her unruly curls back from her face, and they were standing together in his kitchen, bathed in the early morning sunlight.

"I promised, didn't I?" he answered lightheartedly. "Come on, then. I put the kettle on. You can put your feet up and have your tea and let me do all the dirty work."

"You know the life of leisure doesn't suit me, Lucien," she answered as she made a beeline for the kettle, and the two cups and the sugar bowl and all the other accouterments he'd laid out for her beside it. "I'd be quite happy to help."

"Let me spoil you a little," he answered, smiling and turning his attention back to the eggs. Yes, he wanted to spoil her, wanted to make sure her every want was seen to, wanted to show her the kind of life she could have, if only she would have _him._

"You're very sweet." Absently, almost as if she didn't realize she was doing it, she lifted herself up on to her tiptoes and pressed a kiss against his cheek before she set about pouring the tea. The rightness of it, the sheer bliss of the sense of domestic normalcy that colored the scene, made Lucien's heart sing; it would be all but impossible, he thought, for things to go back to business between them after they had shared so much with one another, and that was all for the good.

"What shall we do today then, Doctor Blake?" she asked him. He heard the sound of a chair being pulled back from the table, the sound of Jean settling into it, the clink of a tea cup against a saucer, but he was quite focused on breakfast, and so did not turn to look at her.

"Breakfast first, I think," he said. "And then I thought we might take our tea into the sunroom, and after that, well, I am entirely at your disposal, Mrs. Beazley."

"I quite like having you at my disposal," she told him, but there was something almost wistful in her tone, something that sounded so very like regret he could not help but cast a glance at her over his shoulder. There was nothing troubling in her expression, however, and so he told himself he must have only imagined it.

"I wanted to say, Lucien," she added. "I should have said it last night. What you told me, about what happened in the camp...I know it must be very difficult for you to talk about those things. And I wanted to say thank you, for sharing that with me."

If he had been speaking to anyone else Lucien was certain those words would have dampened his bright mood, but coming from Jean they inspired only a further swelling of affection, for her goodness, her compassionate heart, for the tender way she treated him.

"It isn't something I like to remember," he told her slowly, "but it isn't something I can forget, either. After the war, it was too difficult to talk about, and as time went on I found that no one wanted to hear it. People prefer to remember our victories, and not dwell on our defeats."

"We do ourselves a disservice by burying the past," she said then, and he could not help but feel how perfectly they seemed to suit one another, how Jean's own grief had made her so understanding of his own, and how grateful he was to her for that understanding.

"But we can't live in the past, either," he countered, flipping the bacon neatly and pondering her words. No, he did not want to live in a prison of his own making, trapped by memories, but nightmares still haunted him in the dead of the night, and his hands still shook sometimes when he felt himself confined, and Derek bloody Alderton was sniffing around. He did not want to live in the past, but it seemed he could not outrun it, either.

"We have to make our own futures," he told her. And that was what he intended to do, starting here, starting now, with her.


	45. Chapter 45

_15 August 1959_

The mid-afternoon sunlight slanted in cheerily through the curtains on his window, and Lucien lay tangled up with Jean in his bed, naked and satisfied and utterly at peace. It had been, he thought, quite the best possible day he could have hoped for. After breakfast they'd taken their tea to the garden, and chatted quietly about their children, and Jean had confessed shyly to a private dream of moving to Adelaide, to be closer to her oldest son and his young family. Though the thought of Jean leaving his side was almost too painful to contemplate Lucien had answered her encouragingly, for it warmed his heart to know that she had such dreams, that she did not see herself spending the rest of her life in the pub. And Adelaide wasn't such a terrible place to be, he'd told himself, and in fact he could picture them getting along quite well together in a little cottage close to the sea. It was foolish, he knew, to think such things, but he thought them just the same - and was not foolish enough to voice his imaginings to Jean.

They'd played dominoes in the parlor, and danced together, laughing, and he'd toured her through the home's extensive book collection, and come rather close to opening the doors to his mother's studio, just so he could show it to her. No one had set foot in that room for nearly forty years, but for some reason the thought of Jean there comforted him, and did not terrify him. _Not today,_ he'd told himself. _We have so little time. But she'll come back, one day, and I can show her then._

While Lucien had entertained thoughts of a quiet lunch of toast and eggs Jean had insisted on cooking for him; she'd gone through his larder with all the cool efficiency of a drill sergeant, and whipped up a beautiful meal for the two of them to share, smiling all the while. _I want to,_ she'd told him. _Let me._ And so he had let her, had sat at the table - for while she was happy to be cooking she was adamant that he would be more hindrance than help - and chatted comfortably with her and sipped at a tall glass of cool water, trying not to think too long or too hard about how lovely it might be if they shared all their meals this way, together. After lunch he had once more helped with the washing up, and it was then they lost their restraint; she had looked so beautiful, standing there in his kitchen, and he could not keep his hands to himself. He'd kissed her neck, and she'd sighed, and they'd fallen together once more, stumbling across the short distance from the kitchen to his bedroom tugging at one another's clothes until they fell naked into his bed and wound themselves in and around one another, until they were sated, until they were free.

And now they lay, together. They had passed rather more than an hour together in his bed, but it was still only just gone three o'clock. Plenty of time left, he thought, for them to hold on to one another. Plenty of time left to talk, to dance; perhaps he might even change his mind, and show her to the studio after all. And when the sun had sunk below the horizon and they were exhausted they would fall asleep together once more, and nothing could be finer than that.

But first, he thought, they had some business to attend to. It would be better, he knew, to discuss Derek and his plans and how best they might manage him now, while the sun was still shining, while they were happy and safe and wrapped up in one another. Ghosts and shadows walked in darkness, and he did not want to lend them the strength of the night; they were more easily banished in daylight. And besides, they only had one night left, and Lucien did not want to risk sullying their evening with talk of doom and betrayal. Here, now, they were warm and content, and no calamity could touch them. They could make their plans, and once satisfied they could set aside such bleak thoughts, and enjoy one another for however much time they had left.

"I suppose we should talk about Major Alderton," he said slowly. He was lying on his back, and Jean was pressed hard against his side, one of her lean legs thrown over his thigh, her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, her fingers drawing nonsense patterns against the skin of his chest. She was lovely and warm, and he adored her completely.

In response Jean just hummed, and Lucien took that as permission to continue.

"Where to begin," he mused. How could he explain Derek, his connection to the man, the way their lives had been so deeply intertwined, the way Derek had fallen into madness? She deserved to know all of it, he thought, deserved to know why she'd been singled out, why this man had brought trouble to her door, but Lucien's tongue felt heavy in his mouth, his throat suddenly choked by the grief of a life that had long since passed him by.

"Start at the start," Jean told him softly. "Who is this man, Lucien?"

 _I wish I knew,_ he thought glumly, but she had the right of it, and so he took a deep breath, and began. While Jean listened in silence he told her how he had met Derek in Singapore, and how they had become fast friends. He told her of the chaos he and Derek had caused together, running amok through the city, two young men with the whole world open at their feet. He told her how Derek had stood beside him when he wed Mei Lin, how he had been named godfather to Li, and seemed to take his position seriously. He told her, too, of his suspicions, the way he feared Derek and Mei Lin had grown too close, how Derek had always seemed to focused on her, and how it worried him, and he told her how the Japanese invasion put an end to all such concerns. He told her, his voice trembling, of the camp, how they had been starved and beaten, how he had been thrown in a too-small cell for forty unbearable days and how in that time Derek had seemed to lose all desire to fight back against the injustice of their circumstances. He told her of the bayonet that had nearly spelled the end of Derek's life, and how he had patched up that wound, and how he feared Derek had never forgiven him for trapping him in the world of the living. Haltingly he told her of what had come after, the grim years they'd spent doing intelligence work in Asia and how Derek had exploded when he announced his intention to retire, and leave his old friend behind. And then, at last, he told her of Anzac Day, and Sergeant Hannam, and the lads suffering radiation poisoning. By the time his tale was through his throat was parched and his heart was heavy; how could it be, he wondered, that a man he'd once counted as good as his own brother could have fallen so far into darkness?

"Thank you," Jean said softly, running her hand in gentle, soothing circles over his stomach. "I know it must be difficult for you to talk about all this."

"You deserve to hear it," he told her truthfully.

"I still don't understand why he came to me, though. What could he hope to gain?"

That was, Lucien thought, the biggest question of all.

"He wants me to rejoin the service," Lucien said, but he was only thinking aloud; he did not know, truly, what Derek was about. "It was all he wanted to talk about when I saw him at Anzac Day. He's convinced that the trouble in Indochina is going to engulf the whole world, and he wants every resource he can find to throw at that problem. Maybe he thinks if word gets out about you and I then I might lose my job and have to come back to him."

"I don't see how him purchasing my services could incriminate you," Jean pointed out.

"No," Lucien agreed, his mind racing. "No, I don't understand that either. Maybe it isn't my career he wants to ruin. Maybe…"

His voice trailed off as a terrible thought took hold. Had Derek not inserted himself into Lucien's relationship with his wife once before? Was he trying to do the same again? To what end?

"Maybe what, Lucien?" Jean prompted him gently.

"Maybe he thinks that if he...spent some time with you, and I found out about it, that would be enough to put me off you. Maybe he thinks if I fell out with you I wouldn't want to stay in Ballarat."

Jean shifted slightly, propped her head up on his chest and looked at him, grey eyes wide and searching. Spellbound by the beauty of her Lucien reached out and ran his fingers through her soft hair, thinking all manner of things he was loath to say aloud.

"Would you really leave, if you fell out with me?" she asked him seriously, her expression troubled.

"I think I would consider it," he confessed. He had thought perhaps that might be reassuring to her in some way, to know how deeply he cared for her, but her frown only deepened, and he rushed to explain himself. "I don't have many ties to Ballarat, Jean. Matthew is a good friend, but he's just about the only friend I have, apart from you. I took on my father's practice to fund my search for my daughter, and I've found her now. The house is nice enough, but I could live very comfortably in just about any city in the world. I've always been fond of London. I might consider leaving, if it weren't for you. But I would never, ever rejoin the service. That part of my life is behind me. I've no interest in following someone else's orders."

Jean smiled, a bit sadly. "No," she said. "I don't suppose you do." She dropped her chin, pressed one tender kiss against his chest, and then rolled back into the shelter of his arm. "So what do we do, then?"

 _What do we do?_ He thought. He could hardly keep watch over the pub all night and day. They would have to devise some plan, some way for Jean to signal to him that Derek was there, to buy him enough time to get himself down to the Lock and Key - perhaps with Matthew in tow. There had to be some way, he thought, to protect Jean; if she threw Derek out he might not go quietly, and whichever lad she had on the door when Derek came back might be strong enough to manage him, but then again he might not, or Derek might come armed, or he might come in the middle of the day, when Jean had no security at all. There were too many possibilities, and he had no idea how to account for them all.

"Would your budget stretch to hiring permanent security? Could you keep someone on the door round the clock?"

Jean grumbled, but when she spoke she did not protest. "I could manage it," she said. "I might have to hire another lad or two, but that could be arranged."

"Right," Lucien said grimly. "Here's what I'm thinking. You tell the lads what Derek looks like, and you tell them as soon as he walks in the door they're to ring me here. If I don't answer, they're to ring for Matthew Lawson. We'll come at once and apprehend him at the pub."

"Lucien-"

He was on a roll, and barely heard her attempt to interrupt him, his voice rushing ahead with the fury of his own thoughts.

"We'll need to buy some time, so that Matthew or I can get there to help you. If he comes during the day, it would be best if you arrange to see him again that night. Tell him the same thing you told me, appointments only. If he thinks he's going to get what he wants that may satisfy him, and it would give us enough time to get in position to apprehend him. If he won't wait, or if he comes at night, you ought to take him straight upstairs, that way-"

"Excuse me?"

Lucien was not so caught up in his plans that he did not notice the hint of steel in her voice, and he blanched, wondering how he had offended her and how best to make amends.

"If you can keep him occupied-"

" _Keep him occupied_?" Jean repeated icily, and in the next breath she was sitting upright, pulling the sheet up with her to cover her breasts, an expression of towering fury upon her face. Too late Lucien realized what he had done, why she was cross, and too late he realized just how grievous a mistake he had made.

"Jean, darling-"

"Don't call me _darling,"_ she said, her eyes narrowed. "After everything you've just told me about this man, you want me to entertain him? You want me to take him into my home, into my bed, to risk myself and my girls -"

"I hardly think he'll attack you if he's-"

"If he's _otherwise occupied_?" she spat. Lucien had never before seen Jean quite this angry, and he was shaken to his very core by it, left feeling wretched and terrible for having been the cause of such anger, however unwittingly. In truth he had not thought his plan through; he had envisioned Jean taking Derek upstairs and himself rushing in only moments later, but Jean had seen what he could not, that once she was alone in her bedroom with Derek he would expect certain things, could not be put off indefinitely, and Jean would be left to carry on with the terrible charade until backup arrived. Of course Lucien did not want Derek's hands on Jean's skin, Derek's head on her pillow, did not want Derek within a hundred miles of his beloved, but he had spoken in haste, and he was paying the price for it now. Jean rolled away from him sharply, taking the sheet with her, casting about until she caught hold of her knickers. It might have been humorous, the sight of Jean trying to tug her knickers on while keeping the sheet wrapped around her body, but for the waves of pain and hurt radiating off her, pain he knew he'd caused.

"You think it's no great sacrifice for me to go to bed with him, just to buy you enough time to come barging into my home, and then what, Lucien? Are you going to pull him off me? Are you going to start a brawl right there in my bedroom?"

With her knickers securely in place she'd reached next for her bra, and as soon as it was fastened she let the sheet drop, and tugged on her skirt, her movements quick as lightning, punctuated by furious words he could not interrupt.

"I have not been with anyone else in _ten years_ , Lucien. I chose you. Do you have any idea what you're asking of me?"

"I know," Lucien rushed to defend himself, hoping desperately there might be some way to soothe her ire and salvage their afternoon. "I know it's a lot to ask, Jean, but we need to keep him contained, away from the base, and you might not even have to-"

"I might not," she said, zipping her skirt up smartly. Her shoes and blouse were in the corridor outside his bedroom, and she had not bothered with her stockings or slip, stood with her hands on her hips, beautiful and wounded. "But you wouldn't care if I did, would you? I gave you a gift, Lucien. I gave you more than I've ever given to anyone else. But now I see I made a mistake. You're the same as all the rest, and as far as you're concerned I'm just a whore."

Tears gathered in the corners of her magnificent eyes as she spoke, and as she delivered that final blow she turned and began to walk away from him.

"No!" Lucien said emphatically, all but leaping from the bed, giving no mind to his own nakedness. Jean was moving quickly, had reached the doorway already, and to his horror he saw her pause there just long enough to pick up her bag, as if she did not mean only to leave the room, but to leave the house entirely.

"No, Jean, that's not it at all," he said, chasing after her, "I would never...I _have_ never thought of you that way."

By the time he reached her she'd made her way into the corridor, paused long enough to slide her feet into her shoes even as she slipped into her blouse and began to fasten the buttons with shaking hands, staunchly refusing to look at him.

"You've paid to have me, Lucien," she said grimly. "And you'll let this monster have me, too, if it gets you what you want. But I'm the one to blame. I should have known better than to hope."

"Jean, please," Lucien gasped, thunderstruck by the finality of her words, utterly devastated by how quickly they had gone from holding one another to falling apart. Had they not just spent a beautiful day together? Had they not drifted from bliss to bliss, content with one another? Was it only an hour before he'd been dreaming of living with her in a little cottage in Adelaide? How could it have all fallen apart so quickly? And how the bloody hell was he supposed to make it right again? Desperately he reached for her, but Jean jerked back from him, denying him this one last chance to touch her.

"I'll put a lad on the door," she said heavily. "And we will ring you, if Major Alderton comes back. You can sort the rest of it out on your own. I don't want to see you in my pub again, Doctor Blake."

"Jean, please," he begged, wretchedly; he knew he must look a fool, naked and slack-jawed from the sudden reversal in their circumstances, but he could hardly bear the thought of her walking out that door, hating him as she seemed to do now. "Please, let's just talk about this."

"I let us get too close," she said, and though she was clearly still angry there was a note of regret in her voice that quite broke his heart. "It was always going to end between us. The time has come to face facts. I don't take customers anymore, Doctor Blake."

And then she stepped away from him, and made her way towards the door.

"At least let me drive you back," he said, grasping for some way to hold her in place, some chance to let her ire cool, some means to continue their conversation, something, anything, that might keep her with him, just a little while longer.

"I know my way home," she said softly, and then she reached for the door, and Lucien did the only thing he could think of in that moment.

"I love you, Jean," he said, softly, for he did, and he knew she needed to hear it. The words seemed to freeze her in place, her hand upon the door knob, but only for a moment.

"I know," she whispered, and then the door was opening, and she was stepping through it, and in a moment Lucien was alone once more.


	46. Chapter 46

_15 August 1959_

What Lucien did not know, when he begged her not to leave, was that Jean had in fact driven herself to his residence on Friday, and fully intended to drive herself home. The old madam, Mrs. Harker, had been in possession of a positively ancient truck that passed to Jean along with the pub, and it was still more than serviceable enough to sneak Jean from the Lock and Key to Lucien's fine house on Mycroft Avenue and take her home again. She had parked it well away from his home, of course, not wanting anyone to notice the unfamiliar vehicle parked on the Doctor's drive, and as soon as the door closed behind her she made her way there at once, stowing her little bag on the seat beside her and firing up the ancient engine.

Jean did not weep, as she drove slowly home. Her heart was not racing, and her mind was not cursing the cruel turns of fate that had brought her to this point. What she felt, in truth, was nothing. Her very soul seemed strangely numb, as the familiar sights of Ballarat swam slowly by her window,

She had known for weeks now that she must put an end to her dalliance with Lucien. She had known when she turned up on his doorstep on Friday evening that she meant to leave him. Each time his lips had dragged across her hand she had been whispering farewell to him, silently, etching his face, his kiss, the warmth of his hands into her memory, knowing it must be the last time they came together. Their falling out was the inevitable conclusion of everything that had come before, but she had not expected things to happen quite like _this_ , and her heart could not yet fathom the blow that had been dealt to her.

Though Lucien had seemed flabbergasted by the sudden change in her demeanor towards him the truth was that as they lay together in his bed, as he spoke his mind so carelessly, several terrible realizations had crashed into Jean all at once, and coalesced into a single, towering certainty. The first blow had come when Lucien suggested he might leave Ballarat behind were it not for her; though he had smiled at her softly as he said it Jean had been horrified at the very prospect. That Lucien should be so willing to continue living in a place he did not want to be, a place where he was alone and lonesome, Matthew Lawson his only friend, left her wracked with an emotion that felt an awful lot like guilt. It spoke to the hopes he harbored for the future, she thought, hopes she had gone to his home on Friday intent on dashing. Perhaps she intrigued him, delighted him, sheltered him within the warmth of her body, and in that shelter she gave him cause to linger, but there was no more Jean could give him, and she was not certain he wanted more, in any case. He had spoken of how easily he could leave, how he could perhaps enjoy himself elsewhere, London, even, and Jean had been overcome with the thought that he _should_ go. He _should_ leave, should go out into the world, should go somewhere beautiful and cultured, should go and find himself a woman who could be with him, truly, could give him a home and her heart and everything he wanted. It wouldn't be right, she thought, to keep him chained to Ballarat, grasping for a dream that could never be realized.

The second blow had come only moments later, when he had so blithely suggested that Jean take Alderton to bed. Though he had been contrite he had not ever actually retracted his suggestion. He had apologized for wounding her pride, but had continued to insist that his plan was the only way. That Jean sleeping with that man was the only way to give Lucien what he wanted. And Jean's heart had swung from guilty to enraged in a moment.

There could be no clearer sign, she thought, of his true feelings for her. Yes, perhaps he cared for her, thought he loved her as he had said, but Jean was certain it was no more than fascination he felt for her. He was reckless, and impulsive, and had very little warmth in his life, and it was not so very shocking that he should become so besotted with her, that he should stay in Ballarat just for the opportunity it provided him to spend more time in her company. But whether he thought he loved her or not, when it came down to it Lucien had proven that when he looked at her he saw a whore, same as all the rest. His casual suggestion had been dripping with the implication that it was no great sacrifice, for Jean to give her body to any man, even one as vile as Derek Alderton, that she did so routinely and so cavalierly that he had expected no protest from her. To him she was a means to an end, and nothing more.

And so it had, in the end, been remarkably easy to leave him. Convinced that it would be for the best if Lucien left Ballarat for good, convinced he could not love her truly, or even if he did that they had no hope of a future forever, convinced that he was the same as all the rest, convinced that so long as the sex was enjoyable she'd keep his interest but lose him as soon as he grew bored of her, she had lifted her chin, and marched smartly from the house. There could be no doubt, she thought now, that this was how things ought to be. She had done the right thing.

And yet no sense of righteousness filled her now, as the fervor of their final conversation in his home faded into shadow. There was no relief, no resignation. Her heart felt oddly frozen, as if she could not quite yet grasp the enormity of what she had just done, as if in an effort to hide from the inevitable pain of it she had walled him off entirely. There were a dozen reasons, two dozen, a hundred, why she should never speak to Lucien Blake again, and yet...the reasoning of her mind had so often been defeated by the longing of her heart in the past. She had told herself, time and time again, that he could not love her truly, and yet each time he had touched her she had felt...she had felt _loved_ , however briefly, for however long it took for the euphoria of his presence to fade and the old worries to resurface.

At long last, her heart had lost the war, and she felt as if it might not ever beat again.

But life soldiers on, no matter the unbearable weight of grief, and Jean's old truck trundled into the carpark behind the pub soon enough. It was early, yet; some of the girls might be eating their supper already, preparing for the Saturday night rush. Jean could go into the dining room and sit among her girls, see their smiles and listen to their gentle laughter, and be comforted by them; for a moment she considered it, but then she remembered that she was not due back until the following morning, and they would no doubt be full of questions. It would be better, Jean thought, to take some time to herself, some time to rest, to let the mark of Lucien's lips against her neck fade, before she faced them.

And so she entered the pub through the back door; it was locked as ever, but as lady of the house Jean had a key, and it was no difficult thing to slip herself up the back stairs unnoticed. Covering the distance from the stairs to her bedroom proved trickier; this level was a veritable warren of doors, and she had gone only a little ways when one of those doors opened, and Maureen stepped into view.

"Mrs. Beazley!" she cried, clearly shocked to find Jean in the corridor. "Is everything all right? I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."

 _Is everything all right?_ Jean thought faintly. Technically, she supposed it was. She had her home, and her health, and her girls. She had a plan to deal with Derek Alderton if and when he returned. She had done what she had known she must and ended things with Lucien, albeit somewhat ahead of schedule. Everything was exactly as it should have been. Why then, she wondered, did she feel as if a great, yawning chasm had opened up within her, as if she were tumbling into shadow?

"Quite all right," she forced herself to say, reaching out to pat Maureen gently on the arm.

"No," Maureen said slowly, her eyes searching Jean's face. "Something's happened. Will you tell me, Mrs. Beazley?"

 _That girl really is too clever for her own good,_ Jean thought sadly. Nothing ever got by Maureen; her clear bright eyes saw everything and everyone, and never missed a trick.

"I won't be seeing Doctor Blake again," Jean answered. There was no point in hiding it; Maureen would find out the truth soon enough, and it seemed the most delicate way to answer all of her questions at once, without having to endure a barrage of them. A world of pain was captured within that one sentence; Jean would not be seeing Lucien again, for he had wounded her, had proven himself to be a man like all the rest, had convinced her that no one, not even a handsome doctor with gentle hands, would ever see her as anything other than what she was, what she had been for so long now. It was not Jean's lot in life to be a wife again, to have a garden and a quiet kitchen and a piece of hope. She had chosen, long ago, and some choices, once made, could not be undone.

"Oh, Jean," Maureen said softly, and Jean smiled, to hear the girl call her by her given name. It happened so rarely; Jean preferred to maintain a certain level of decorum, and the young ladies who lived beneath her roof followed her rules and always called her _Mrs. Beazley,_ kept their rooms clean and remembered their manners, but Maureen had slipped, just now, and Jean felt a sudden rush of fondness for her as a result. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Right now I think I want a bath, and perhaps a little rest," Jean answered. "I will come down, later. No sense in you wasting the night watching if you don't want to."

"No," Maureen said, shaking her head. "You stay up here. You've earned a night off. Go and have your bath and I'll bring you up something to eat, and a nice pot of tea."

"Really, Maureen, you don't have to-"

"I insist," Maureen answered, giving Jean a cheeky grin and nudging her gently. "Go on, then. I'll be back soon."

It was not often that Jean found herself on the receiving end of someone else's mothering, but she knew when she'd been beaten, and so she only nodded, and made her way down the corridor to her own room. The door closed behind her and she dropped her bag right there at her feet, looking out across the parlor. Her sons had grown from children to teenagers here in this place; in those days Jean had kept a little bed for herself in the parlor, and had divided the bedroom so that Jack and young Christopher might share it. They used to sit together on an old leather sofa by the fireplace on cold winter evenings, playing pontoon and laughing. It seemed a lifetime ago; Jack had been sent off to Melbourne by Doug Ashby the same year young Christopher joined the army, and Jean had lost both her boys at once. These rooms, which had once been full of the sound of their calling voices, had fallen silent. As they were silent now; Jean was alone, and she felt the weight of that solitude settle heavily on her shoulders.

 _A bath,_ she reminded herself, and so right there and then she began to unbutton her blouse, and as she crossed the distance from the doorway to her private bath she slowly shed her clothes, until at last she was naked and shivering, listening to the sound of the water running, trying not to remember the way it had felt, the night before, to lie in the warmth of Lucien's bathtub with his chest warm at her back, his arms around her. Better to forget such things, she thought. Better not to hope, to dream, to wish, for each time she did, she found only disappointment.


	47. Chapter 47

_21 August 1959_

Lucien was floating.

Well, he felt as if he was floating. The earth seemed to turn and roil beneath his feet, and the bookshelves kept coming at him from funny angles, and his stomach felt rather as if it had been turned inside out, and his fingers were vibrating, and, for the moment, his heart did not weigh him down. The reason for his current state - not one of euphoria, necessarily, but one in which every grief and every hurt had been dampened, like cloth around the end of a drumstick, softening the impact of the blow, and every good sensation had been heightened to the point that he could not recognize just how very bad things had gotten - was a mostly empty whiskey lying on its side by his foot, its contents slowing dripping out onto the carpet.

He did not know what time it was, or how long he had been here, banging away on the piano in the parlor. He did not know, any more, how he had come to be here, or why, and he was certainly not at all aware that the sun had risen behind the still-closed curtains. He might remember, later, that he had been unable to sleep on Thursday night, and had in the still small hours cast off his covers and gone prowling in search of drink, thinking it might send him off to sleep. It hadn't, of course; unconsciousness was not the same as sleep, and the drink had not yet graced him with even that meager gift.

To his mind the melody pouring out of his fingertips was jaunty and merry, a lively tune that set his toes to tapping and made his heart light. That was only the drink talking, however, for when Mrs. Penny opened the door that Friday morning and heard the terrible clamor coming from the parlor merriment was the farthest thing from her mind. She had, unbeknownst to him, tiptoed carefully towards the room where he sat muttering and banging away on the old piano, taken one look at the mess of her employer, and promptly left.

Having taken no note of her coming and going whatsoever Lucien might happily have stayed right where he was until at last exhaustion claimed him, but such uninterrupted revelry was not to be, for Mrs. Penny had placed a phone call on her way out the door, and not more than twenty minutes after she left a pale blue police car lumbered to stop on the drive in front of the Blake residence.

Lucien was oblivious to all of this until, quite with any warning, Matthew Lawson stepped into his line of sight. It did not occur to Lucien that his might have come for any reason other than to join him in his delightful pursuit, and he grinned, delighted at the prospect of sharing a drink with the Superintendent, but he had no sooner opened his mouth to offer a greeting than Matthew struck him hard across the face and sent him flying arse over tea kettle. Lucien landed, sputtering, in a heap on the floor, but when he tried to rise the world swam nauseatingly beneath him and he had to close his eyes after a sudden wave of nausea that had as much to do with the sudden revelation of his own depravity as it did the ill effects of the drink.

For a moment he lay there, feeling the earth spin beneath him, his hands clutching at the carpet, his eyes screwed up tight against the sudden urge to vomit. He breathed deeply, once, twice, three times, and at long last he found the strength to speak.

"I've made a mess of things, haven't I?" he said morosely. And then he rolled onto his side and heaved the meager contents of his stomach onto the floor.

* * *

Two hours later Lucien found himself sitting in his shirtsleeves at the kitchen table, sipping gingerly at a cup of tea while Matthew frowned at him from across the table. His mind had cleared quickly once he purged the drink from his system; he still felt rather delicate, and his head ached something terrible, but when he opened his eyes he saw the world as it was, and knew himself for a fool.

"Doctor Harvey performed the autopsy herself," Matthew told him, and Lucien's heart sank still further in his chest. He had forgotten, somehow, that he was due at the morgue first thing in the morning. _I've let Matthew down as well,_ he thought glumly. _My father, my wife, my daughter, Jean, Matthew, Christ, even Mrs. Penny; I can never make any of them happy. I wonder how long it will be before Matthew leaves me, too?_

"I suppose this is the part where you give me the sack, is it?" Lucien asked him grimly.

To his utter confusion, Matthew only barked out a laugh.

"Everyone's entitled to a sick day, every now and then," he said. "So long as you don't pull any stunts like that at the station, I don't see any reason why you can't keep your job. But the moment you stuff up…"

Lucien nodded in agreement, and immediately regretted the action, for it only set his stomach to churning once again and compounded the terrible pain in his head.

"You want to tell me what happened?" Matthew asked. "Mrs. Penny tells me she's been keeping an eye on your drinks cart, and you haven't had a spell like this for a while now."

 _Do I dare tell him?_ Lucien wondered. Matthew had warned him off Jean from the very first, had been adamant that no good could come of Lucien being friendly with her, insistent that he stood to lose his job, his reputation, his very future, by virtue of his taking on a whore. And yet Lucien had done it, just the same, for Jean was everything to him, a piece of hope in the darkness, a piece of goodness he could cling to. He had flown in the face of Matthew's careful warning, and been repaid with grief, but there was no reason now, he thought, to continue to hide his transgressions, for the thing was done, and he could visit Jean no more, and his heart ached, desperate to share his story with someone else, to hear some sympathy or wise counsel.

And so he did. Slowly, haltingly he confessed the whole sorry tale, how he had first solicited Jean, how he had come to care for her so deeply, how she had encouraged him to go to China and his hopes had been dashed by his daughter, how she had comforted him afterwards, how Derek Alderton had come to the Lock and Key, how Jean and Lucien between them had tried to devise some means of dealing with him, and how Lucien had so spectacularly offended his lady love that she refused to see him, ever again. Matthew did not interrupt him beyond a hum or a harrumph at the expected times, but his frown deepened with each passing second, and by the time Lucien was through there was an expression rather like pity in his sharp eyes.

"I did tell you, Lucien," he said grimly.

Lucien raised his hands as if in defeat. "I know," he sighed, "I know. But Jean is..she's…"

"She's a good woman," Matthew finished for him. "She is. And her girls are good women, too. But it's dangerous, to get too close. Jean knows the rules, even if you don't."

"Oh, bugger the bloody rules!" Lucien spat, and Matthew appeared taken aback by his sudden display of vitriol. "I want her to be my wife, Matthew. I want her to live in this house with me, and I want us to eat our meals together, and I want her to have a garden to grow things in and I want her to be safe, and I want…" He realized, as he spoke, how utterly ridiculous it sounded. Talking about all the things he wanted, all the dreams he had harbored in his heart for their future when it was his callous disregard of Jean's feelings that had sent her running from his side, when it was his own actions that seemed to prove her fears founded and left him without her.

"How long has it been since you met her, Blake?" Matthew asked.

"I don't know," Lucien answered slowly, wondering what on earth Matthew was trying to get at with this particular line of questioning. "It was after we found that dead girl in the lake. That was what...mid-May?"

"And now it's August," Matthew pointed out, and realization began to dawn slowly in Lucien's mind. "You've known her three months? Thereabouts? Three months, and you're talking about marriage and moving her out of the pub. Really, Lucien, you hardly even know the woman. And it's clear from how all this has fallen apart that you don't really understand her. You pushed too hard, things fell apart. It happens. Try not to be too hard on yourself, would you?"

It was, Lucien thought, the most confusing mishash of advice he'd ever received, but there was a thread of sense running through it, even he could see that. Yes, it was his fault Jean had left, but it was not cruelty on his part or spite on hers that had driven a wedge between them. It was a misunderstanding, he could see that now; for all that he felt as if she had taken up residence inside his heart the truth remained that they had a very great deal to learn about one another, and he could not fault Jean for the way she had responded to him, for how quickly she had rushed to defend herself against a man she had in truth known only for a very little while.

Just as he could not fault Li, truly, for how wary she had been when he turned up at her door; he was a stranger to her, and long years of fear had left her mistrustful. She was only trying to protect her heart, the life she'd tried to build for herself, and he had intruded on that life, and he represented to her an almost untenable risk, a threat that could ruin everything she'd worked so hard for. It was Jean who had encouraged him to reach out to Li, to continue to write to her, to slowly, carefully, reveal himself to her and hope that she would do the same for him. Would Jean offer him the same counsel now, he wondered; would it help matters if he bared his heart to her, if he tried to find some way for them to continue to learn about one another, or had he crossed a line from which there was no returning? Was it too late, he wondered, or was there hope yet?

Matthew would say it was too late, he knew. Matthew would say they were doomed from the start, and the kindest thing he could do, for both their sakes, would be to simply let her go, let her return to her life and he to his, never again to cross paths with one another. That was the advice Matthew would give, but the very idea was intolerable to Lucien. Oh, he was not so much a fool as to consider marching through Jean's front door when the wounds he had created were still so very fresh and she had been so firm in her directive that he not return, but he was fool enough to cling to hope.

"Now," he said, looking to change the subject. "What did Alice find in the autopsy?"


	48. Chapter 48

_18 September 1959_

_Dear Lucien,_ the letter began, _I must say I was quite surprised to learn you've settled down in Australia; you always spoke of the place as if it were some terrible provincial coffin you were desperate to escape at any cost. I am, therefore, not entirely shocked to learn that you wish to leave. As it so happens, there are several positions available at the London, including one on male surgical, where you could both practice as a surgeon and instruct student doctors. I recall from our Army days your penchant for explaining things and your patience with the noncoms; I think you'd be remarkably well-suited to the task. If you truly wish to come and join me here in dear old misty London I would be delighted to have you. It would be quite nice to sit and have a pint and reminisce about the old days, and more to the point, were you to join the staff you would bring their average IQ up to a tolerable level. I'll not bore you with the dreary details of my own life - my wife hates me, I suspect my daughter is a budding anarchist, and my son spends a worrying amount of time alone in his room - and will say simply this: if you wish to come, truly, tell me at once, and I can assist in arranging your introduction to the current head of male surgical, and provide you with a positively glowing (and not entirely fabricated) reference._

_Hope you're well, old friend._

_Sincerely,_

_Dr. James Hadderfield_

As he read it Lucien could almost hear Jimmy's voice echoing in his mind, though it had been more than a decade since last he'd seen his old friend and former brother-in-arms. They'd been stationed together in Singapore, before the war, but Jimmy had been injured just before the invasion and was sent home to recuperate, and so was blessed enough to avoid imprisonment by a matter of weeks. They'd kept in touch, after - Lucien still fondly recalled the day they'd been reunited, Lucien himself still rain-thin and exhausted from his internment, and the way Jimmy had thrown all sense of English repression to the wind and embraced him as a brother - and as this new plan began to shape in his mind Jimmy seemed the logical person for Lucien to call upon for aid.

The seeds of this particular idea had been planted back on that quiet August morning when last he'd had Jean in his bed. They had talked softly together of how Lucien might leave town, were it not for Jean. His initial reasons for coming to Ballarat - to settle his father's estate and find some permanent residence from which he could send and receive mail, as well as a steady income with which to pay the private investigator who was searching for his family - no longer applied. Li had been found, Mei Lin was dead, and he had already worked through the legalities with his father's solicitor. There was no reason, he thought, to stay. Doctor Harvey would make a fine police surgeon, and Lucien quite liked the idea of handing his duties over to a woman. His patients could find other GPs, or perhaps he could sell his home and the practice to some doctor looking to make a fresh start. He would miss Matthew, of course, but he was not certain that one friend was sufficient enticement to keep him in this town.

More than that, however, he was certain that should he leave Derek Alderton would get wind of it at once, and abandon any designs he had on Jean. Lucien had more contacts in London, and therefore more protection from any of Derek's schemes. It would be, he thought, the neatest way to protect both Jean and his wounded pride. It seemed to be, he thought, the best course of action.

And yet as he sat at his desk, listening to Mrs. Penny puttering around in the kitchen, Jimmy's brief letter clutched in his hands, he was at war with himself, torn between what he _wanted_ to do, and what he felt he must. Logic told him that any future with Jean was beyond his reach, that while perhaps he could attempt to apologize for his most recent offense it was unlikely that Jean would accept him. He had, however briefly, entertained some notion of showing her a better life, a different life, but he was not entirely certain she wanted a different life, and even if she did, he could not be sure she wanted it with him. Jean had made her choices, and Lucien was not one of them. To leave Ballarat behind for the culture and excitement of London, for the comfort of old friends and the potential for new ones, for the prestige of a position at the London and the challenge of teaching young trainee doctors, seemed to be the best possible course of action.

Logic could say whatever it would; his heart remained rooted in the soil of Ballarat, where he cared for his patients, was able to get to know them, to form relationships with them, rather than treating a revolving door of nameless faces. Ballarat was calm, and quiet, after a lifetime of noise and adventure and pain. Ballarat was the warmth of his father's house, the comfort of his mother's memory, the pleasure of a drink shared with Matthew, the satisfaction of solving the riddle of a murder, the dream of Jean, the potential for _home._

Was he really prepared to give it up? He couldn't quite say.

Lucien was in the very act of reaching for the whiskey bottle when there came a timid knock upon his office door, and in the next moment Mrs. Penny had opened it and stuck her head through.

"Apologies, Doctor," she said, and strange, he thought, but she looked a little wild-eyed. What on earth could have left her looking so surprised and out of sorts? "There's a young lady here to see you. No appointment."

Now that was interesting. Lucien had no further appointments scheduled and Matthew had no need of him, and so he saw no reason to send this unexpected visitor away.

"By all means," he said, "send her in."

Mrs. Penny frowned, but did as she was told, holding the door open and gesturing for the young lady - who was apparently standing just beside her - to step through.

Lucien's breath froze in his chest as she stepped into view, as Mrs. Penny closed the door behind her. It was Maureen, the girl with a riot of auburn curls whom Jean favored above all the rest. He could think of no possible reason for her coming here; always before when Jean or one of her girls had need of him they'd rung him first, and he had gone to them. None of them had ever ventured to his office, and he had no idea what to make of her arrival.

"Afternoon, Doc," she said. There was a confidence to Maureen; it wasn't that she was arrogant or that she carried herself with an air of superiority, but she moved with easy grace, always kept her chin up, and always behaved as if she were the perfect equal of everyone around her, regardless of their age or station. She was self-assured, and clever, and he'd always thought he might quite like her, if he ever got to know her properly.

"Good afternoon, Maureen," he said, and only then did he realize that he did not know the girl's last name. Ordinarily he would have done her the courtesy of calling her _Miss,_ but having no idea how to follow it up he was forced to use her Christian name. "Come, have a seat," he continued, gesturing to the two little chairs that faced his desk. "What can I do for you?"

She sauntered across the room and folded herself elegantly into one of the chairs, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. She wore dark trousers and a smart blue blouse, and her keen eyes watched him intently, leaving him with the rather unpleasant feeling of being inspected under a microscope.

"Mrs. Beazley doesn't know I'm here," she began, and Lucien's curiosity rocketed to new heights. It had been a month since his falling out with Jean; had she told her girls? Had they perhaps noticed his absence, and remarked on it? Had Maureen come to give him a bollocking, or was she in need of his aid? He was desperately eager to learn what this was all about.

"We have a bit of a...delicate situation. You remember Lorraine?"

"She's the one with the dark hair? Cut short?" Lucien asked, gesturing as if to mimic the curl of Lorraine's neatly trimmed tresses. Maureen looked pleased that he recalled her, and he hoped that would earn him some piece of her favor.

"Yes," Maureen said. "She's in a bit of trouble. Not that sort of trouble," she added quickly, catching Lucien's look. "She's not expecting. But she's got...well. There's these little bumps. On...well. They're in a delicate spot. This morning she told me she's got a rush on her stomach, and her palms."

"Ah," Lucien said then, realizing why it was Maureen had come. It was an unpleasant reality for ladies working in their particular profession, the possibility of contracting some disease, and by the sound of it this one was likely syphilis. Jean had told him that she encouraged her girls to protect themselves in every possible way, but some of them, she'd said, were less confident and did not demand that the gentlemen wear protection. Without it, little problems like this one were almost inevitable.

"She needs a doctor. She didn't want to tell Mrs. Beazley because she's scared, but I've seen this before. I know she's in trouble, and Doctor King won't give us the time of day."

"If it's what I think it is, it is curable," Lucien told her. "We could manage it easily enough."

"Will you come, then?"

For a moment Lucien simply stared at her, aghast. He wanted to say _yes, at once._ He wanted to gather up his bag and a vial of penicillin and drive to the Lock and Key that very moment. But the memory of Jean's face, her grim expression as she told him that she did not ever want him to return, held him back. Would it not be unkind to fly in the face of her wishes? Could Lorraine not visit him here just as easily as Maureen had done, and spare both he and Jean the unpleasantness of his unexpected arrival in her home? He did not know what, if anything, Jean had told Maureen about their falling out, and he did not feel it was his place to tell her such personal things about her employer. How could he best care for Lorraine and keep from offending Jean still further?

"I know you fell out," she said softly, and his heart sank. It was somewhat reassuring, to know he did not have to explain himself to her, but it grieved him to wonder what she must think of him, given how things ended with Jean. "I want to hate you for hurting her but I know it's more complicated than that. She was...happy, when you were around. And she's been bloody miserable ever since. She hasn't said anything," she added, and Lucien wondered then how much of his own grief must have shown on his face, for her to read his thoughts so easily, "but she's quieter, now, and she just looks...sad. I think you ought to talk to her. And besides, Lorraine refuses to come. She's afraid she's going to lose her job, and she's afraid of doctors. You're the only one who could help her, but she'd see you here."

As a doctor, Lucien knew he had no other choice. Likely Lorraine was only in the early stages of her disease, and it would be critical to treat her now, before the symptoms grew more advanced. And she presented a risk to the community at large, should she continue to take customers; she could pass it to the men, who might take it home and pass it to their wives, or pass it to other girls in the pub who in turn passed it to other men, and he could very well soon find himself overrun with patients. If Lorraine would not seek treatment elsewhere, he had a duty to go to her, to intervene before things got out of hand.

And he wanted, more than anything, to speak to Jean again. If he came to the pub not to pester or plead with her, but with the noble purpose of caring for one of her girls, perhaps she would not dismiss him immediately. Perhaps he might have a chance, however slim, of restoring some of their good rapport.

It was a chance he had to take.

"Very well," he said. "I think it's best I come now, before she starts seeing customers this evening. Early intervention is key."

Maureen rose to her feet, then, having no doubt decided that their little meeting was at an end, and as she did Lucien suddenly wondered how it was she had come to this place, whether she had walked or if she had the means to drive herself. It was an awfully long walk from the Lock and Key to his front door.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said.

"If you'll wait just a moment, you can ride with me," he said, shuffling around in search of his case. She did not immediately answer, and he looked up to find her watching him with a curious expression on her face.

"That's very kind of you to offer," she told him with a wry smile. "I'd rather not walk, if I don't have to."

"It's settled, then," he said, hefting his case and crossing the room in search of the cabinet that housed his medicines. He was full of purpose now, and Jimmy's letter lay forgotten on the desk behind him.


	49. Chapter 49

_18 September 1959_

"Lovely day for it," Lucien said, drumming his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel and casting about desperately in search of some harmless topic of conversation in which he could engage Maureen without touching on any of the unpleasant feelings currently swirling through his mind. Oh, there he did not doubt at all that he must do whatever it took to provide Lorraine with the proper medical care, even at the risk of causing further offense to Jean, and a part of his heart dearly hoped that seeing her again might put them on the path to reconciliation. But other, more complicated troubles assailed him; would Jean think he was manipulating her, trying to use her girls to get back in her good graces? He was doing nothing of the sort, not really; Maureen had come to him, had sought him out herself, and it had not been his idea that he go to the pub. Would Jean cast him out anyway, deny him access to a patient who needed him, or worse would she stand by silently and speak no word to him, give him no choice but to leave without making amends? There was no way to know what waited for him, and the oppressive weight of the silence between himself and Maureen had grown quite awkward. He didn't really have the first idea what to say to the girl; apart from her profession and the fact that Jean liked her he did not really know anything about Maureen at all.

His feeble attempt at small talk earned him an incredulous arch of her eyebrow - a move that reminded him forcefully of Jean - and the pursing of her lips; she had an uncanny knack for making him feel as if she could read his thoughts, and he knew then that she had seen through him at once.

"You don't have to keep me entertained, Doctor Blake," she told him. "We can just sit quietly for the next few minutes."

"Right."

And he tried, he really did. He tried to focus on the road, the mechanics of driving the car, the puffy clouds scuttling by overhead, but in silence his chaotic thoughts crescendoed into a stupendous roar. In the end, he managed to hold his tongue for approximately two minutes, but after that he could bear it no longer, and spoke again.

"I've been terribly remiss," he said, and beside him Maureen sighed audibly. He ignored her. "Tell me a little bit about yourself, Maureen."

"Well, Doctor Blake, I'm a whore, and apart from the occasional walk to the market I don't get out much."

 _That_ shut him up, at least for a moment. The words had been delivered coolly, had no doubt been intended to remind him of the reality of their circumstances. She said it so matter-of-factly, but when the word _whore_ passed her lips he was forcefully reminded of Jean, speaking that word not proudly or dispassionately the way Maureen had done, but in a tone of anger, and sorrow, and hurt. There were some people he had known, over the course of his life, who having been painted with some derogatory label by society wrapped themselves up in it like armor, and he wondered now if Maureen was one of those people. Wondered if the word _whore_ had been hurled at her feet so many times that she had at last picked it up and draped it round her shoulders like a robe of state, knowing that if she said it first the word could not sting so much when it was delivered by other people.

"Oh, you're more than that," Lucien said softly.

"You think I'm too good to be a whore, Doctor?" she fired back.

"No," he said, struggling to find some way to articulate his thoughts. "It's just that you, all of you, you're….well, you're people, aren't you? You can't be reduced to any one thing. What you do for a living isn't what defines you. Any of you."

The silence this time was more speculative than daunting; it seemed Maureen was mulling over his words, and Lucien was holding his breath, waiting to see whether he would be rewarded or admonished for having spoken to her so plainly.

"You're a very strange man," Maureen said at last, and Lucien laughed, and some of the tension seemed to dissipate from the car. "That was a very noble thing you just said, but you've paid for a woman, same as all the rest."

"I did," Lucien agreed, the good humor of a moment before vanished entirely. "But it's not as if I could take her out to dinner, or to the cinema. It was made very clear to me that there was only one way I could spend time alone with Jean."

"Don't you dare blame that on her."

Maureen's defense of her employer was admirable, and the heat in her voice spoke to a deep affection that warmed Lucien's heart; it was good to know that Jean had someone on her side, someone willing to stand up for her, to fight for her, even when she wasn't present. She deserved that, he thought.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he said. "The circumstances are...complicated. I know that. I just...well. I just wanted to be with her. And if that's the only way, then I accept it."

"Would you have done it properly, if you could?" she asked him softly. "Taken her to a nice restaurant, or the cinema, or the park? Treated her like a lady?"

 _I would have married her, if I could have,_ he thought glumly.

"Yes," he said. "Yes."

"She deserves that much. Mrs. Beazley is a real lady. I've heard stories about other madams but she's not like that. She's...good. She deserves something good."

 _And I wanted to give it to her. God help me, but I did,_ Lucien thought.

Aloud he said only, "here we are," for the car had at last lumbered to a stop in the carpark behind the Lock and Key. Lucien turned the car off and reached for the door handle, but Maureen stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.

"Wait," she said. "Let me speak to Mrs. Beazley first. She doesn't know you're coming and it might upset her less if I warn her."

"Very well," Lucien said, flashing her a grateful smile, and that was that. Maureen slipped from the car and Lucien was left alone with all thoughts and his worries and his hopes.

* * *

It was a Friday, and Fridays meant deliveries. Dimitri had come and gone, and Jean was just finishing up a quick tour through the kitchen, making sure everything was in place for the weekend when the sound of a footfall behind her heralded Maureen's arrival. Jean smiled when she saw her; it was always nice to spend a few minutes with Maureen.

"I'm thinking stew for tomorrow," she said as Maureen drew near, "do you think that would be all right?"

"Fine," Maureen said dismissively. There was something focused, determined about her expression that left Jean feeling uneasy, and her fears were proved founded in a moment. "I need to talk to you about something."

"Of course," Jean answered at once. They kept no secrets from one another, and Jean always wanted to be available, ready to listen calmly to any of her girls. It was not her habit to pass judgment on them, and it was not their habit to hide things from her. Whatever Maureen had to say Jean would hear it, and answer as honestly as she could.

"Lorraine's in a bad way," Maureen said, and Jean's heart sank. "She was afraid to tell you because she doesn't want to lose her job, but she needs a doctor."

"She's not expecting is she?" Jean was aghast at the very thought; she'd only just lost one girl to pregnancy a few months before, and she didn't like the idea of losing Lorraine, too. They would manage, of course, they always did, but -

"No," Maureen said. "Worse. I think it's syphilis."

 _God help us,_ Jean thought faintly. Some customers had a favorite girl, but some preferred a variety, and if one of the girls was sick, they were all at risk. Not to mention the potential damage to the business, should word get out; Jean's establishment was preferred by the local elites because it was quiet, discreet, and above all, _clean._ If her reputation were compromised they might not ever recover, and all her dreams of moving to Adelaide and starting afresh would turn to ashes in her hands.

"I'll ring Doctor King-"

"I already have," Maureen said grimly. "He hung up on me. And Raine won't go to the hospital, she went into hysterics when I mentioned it."

"She'll have to," Jean said firmly, wiping her hands on her apron, a plan already forming in her mind. _I'll drag her down there by the ear myself if I have to._

"Maybe not," Maureen said carefully. The wary expression on her face, the intent way Maureen was watching her now told Jean that the girl had no doubt already come up with alternate arrangements, but it seemed she was apprehensive about how Jean might respond. Why should she be, though? Jean wondered. Lorraine needed help and Jean would gladly accept it from any quarter. Surely Maureen must have known that Jean would support whatever decision she had made, unless….

 _Oh, no._ The truth began to dawn on Jean along with a growing sense of distress, and in the next breath Maureen confirmed it.

"Doctor Blake is sitting in his car outside," she said, and Jean's heart sank in her chest, and she leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest in a bid to stop the sudden trembling of her hands.

Of course Maureen had gone to Lucien. He had been the girls' physician, before, and he was the only doctor in town willing to come to this place, willing to dirty his hands with the likes of them. If Lorraine was as terrified of the hospital as Maureen seemed to think then bringing the doctor to her was the only logical solution, but Jean wished with all her heart it had been any other doctor, any other man.

One month now she had been without him. One month without his hands, his gentle smiles, his sparkling blue eyes, one month without the hope and the warmth that he had brought to her. Jean remained firm in her conviction that she had done the right thing in leaving him behind, that though it hurt she had spared them both a greater heartbreak down the line, but that conviction did not breed happiness. A little bit of the light seemed to have vanished from her world, without him. The routines that had once comforted her now felt stale and restrictive, and she was lonesome and distractible, with nothing to look forward to, nothing to give her hope save for that one single dream of Adelaide, which felt no closer to her reach now than it had done three months before. The only excitement she ever found these days was when a soldier came to the pub, but none of them had been Major Alderton, and no whisper of him had reached her there. The days were long and dreary, the nights quiet and despondent, but it was not just the loss of his company that caused her malaise. It was the realization that had struck her as she lay beside him his bed, the sure and certain truth that the love she had dreamed of, the love she remembered, the love she hoped might find her once again, was forever beyond her grasp. If she could have loved, she thought, she would have loved _him_ , but he had turned out to be no more than a dream, and the loss of that dream stung as much as anything else.

And now he was _here._ Sitting in his car outside, waiting for Jean to accept or reject his aid as she chose. Should she bring him in? After she told him in no uncertain terms that he was not welcome Lucien had not dared set foot inside the pub, and even now he was not barging through the door, was instead leaving the decision in her hands. It was a courteous gesture, but it offered scant comfort, for the truth was she could not bear the thought of seeing his face again. That handsome face, that kind face, that face she had traced with her fingertips; he was no longer hers to want, to long for, and yet she feared that if she saw him now the longing might overcome her, and undo her.

But something had to be done about Lorraine.

"Send him in," she said quietly. "Bring him to me here. We'll go see Lorraine together."

"Thank you, Mrs. Beazley," Maureen said. It seemed a funny thing to say, to thank her for such a thing, but then again Maureen knew how Jean had cared for Lucien, and no doubt she'd noticed the changes in Jean's spirit since the day everything fell apart. Perhaps Maureen understood, on some level, what it would cost Jean to see Lucien again. It was a terrible price to pay, but something had to be done, and Jean would give everything she had for her girls. Even her pride.


	50. Chapter 50

_18 September 1959_

"Just don't do anything stupid, all right?" Maureen told the Doctor as she led him back to the kitchen where Mrs. Beazley was waiting for both of them.

She liked the Doc, really she did. Liked him better today than she had yesterday, for she had only just this afternoon caught a glimpse of the man he must have been when he was alone with Mrs. Beazley. Not _the_ _Doctor_ , urbane, worldly, rich, and unconcerned with anything other than himself, not the man Maureen had always thought him to be, but _Lucien,_ who was gentle, and kind, who had fallen in love with a whore. It was no wonder he'd made Mrs. Beazley happy, for however brief a time, if he had spoken to her the same way he'd spoken to Maureen in the car, but he'd also left her sad and lonesome, and Maureen wouldn't soon forget it. She hoped he'd keep his mouth shut - though he had already proven that silence was not his forte - and that he would not further grieve Mrs. Beazley by pleading for a second chance she would not give him.

In a moment they were in the kitchen, and Mrs. Beazley was waiting for them, in her neat white blouse and perfectly pressed skirt beneath her favorite blue apron, her chin held high though she'd crossed her arms over her chest in a defensive sort of way.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Blake," she said as Maureen and the Doctor drew ever closer to her.

To his credit the Doctor remembered his manners and swept his hat from his head with his free hand now that he was inside Mrs. Beazley's home, and his voice was soft when he answered her.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Beazley," he said.

There was the briefest of pauses, then, as they looked at one another. Maureen was not much concerned with romance; life had been unkind to her, and with the notable exception of Mrs. Beazley she had never met a single person who didn't disappoint her. Even here at the pub, where she had lived for nearly seven years, even the girls who were as good as her family could not be entirely trusted; they never stayed long, and the good ones took a piece of Maureen's heart with them when they left. There had been a few bad apples, over the years, and Mrs. Beazley had always dealt with them deftly, but it was the ones Maureen least suspected who hurt the most. Even Lorraine, who was funny and sweet and always found some reason to laugh, had betrayed Mrs. Beazley's trust when she'd told her soldier about Doctor Blake's appointments, and she'd done it again now, had not stood up for herself and put every last one of them at risk in the process. The men were even less reliable than the girls; even Doctor Blake, who seemed so _good,_ had broken Mrs. Beazley's heart. No, Maureen did not believe in love, for she had never found a love that did not wound.

Mrs. Beazley was another story, she knew. Mrs. Beazley loved with her whole heart; she loved every girl who came to her door and every baby born beneath her roof, loved her sons, loved her nephew, had loved her husband like something out of a romance novel, and she'd loved Doctor Blake, too. What Maureen saw now was the aftermath of that love, written on both their faces, Mrs. Beazley and the Doctor looking at one another with hurt in their eyes, suddenly awkward in the presence of a person they'd once cared for, both of them a little lost, a little broken, both of them at a loss for words.

And she could not bear it. She could not bear the silence, or the way the Doctor fidgeted with his hat, or the shine of Mrs. Beazley's bright eyes. She could not bear the weight of all the words they both left unspoken, the accusations Mrs. Beazley no doubt longed to hurl at him and the apologies he no doubt longed to make for whatever had precipitated their falling out. When Mrs. Beazley had left to spend the weekend with him Maureen had not believed for a second that she really meant to end things with him, but she had, and she had returned so dejected that Maureen had known at once the Doctor must have done _something_ to force her hand. What it was Mrs. Beazley would not say, and Maureen was not so callous as to ask. She had given this woman she loved as dearly as a mother the space to grieve in silence, but now the source of that grief stood in the kitchen with them, and Maureen could see Mrs. Beazley's sorrow in every line of her face, an open wound.

Someone would have to move things along before either Mrs. Beazley or the Doctor said something they were liable to regret, and so Maureen took care of that herself.

"Lorraine's just upstairs, Doctor," she said.

It was as if her words had woken them both from a trance; the stillness and the silence were shattered, and Mrs. Beazley moved at once, wiping her hands absently on her apron.

"I'll go in with you if that's all right, Doctor Blake," she said. "Lorraine's a bit nervous about doctors and it might help her if I'm there."

"Of course," he said, and so the three of them left that place, Doctor Blake graciously allowing Mrs. Beazley to take the lead, following her without question or complaint, and Maureen bringing up the rear, thinking grim thoughts about the fairy tale of love, and the havoc that it wrought.

* * *

Jean's presence had been a balm to his frightened patient, and they had between them managed to keep her calm enough for Lucien to carry out his examination. It was syphilis, of that he was certain, and he was glad he had already brought all the supplies he needed in order to treat it. Jean held the girl's hand while Lucien administered the first of course of the medication, while Lorraine wept and cursed her own foolishness. Though Jean had been adamant that Lorraine could not see another customer until Lucien had pronounced her disease-free she had been kind, too, had reassured the girl with all the tender understanding of a mother, promised her she would not lose her place in Jean's home over this offense. It was a kindness Lucien would not have expected of another madam, keeping on an employee who could not perform her duties, but it was exactly what he expected of Jean, and his heart ached with love for her, for her gentle kindness and compassionate spirit.

The moment he was finished Jean ushered him from the room; Maureen had been waiting for them in the corridor, and once they stepped out of the door she stepped through it, going to sit with her friend, closing the door behind her and leaving Lucien alone with Jean for the first time in a month.

He half-expected her to show him out with all due haste, to rush him from her home and remind him that he was not welcome, but she did nothing of the sort. Instead she sighed, and once more crossed her arms over her chest, and regarded him for a moment with an inscrutable expression on her face.

"How far advanced do you think she is?" Jean asked him then.

Though Lucien wanted, very much, to talk to Jean about what had happened between them, to apologize and beg her forgiveness, to tell her that he loved her, he could see at once that she had the right of it. It would be better for both of them if they stuck to the matter at hand, and did not go poking about in old wounds.

"Not very," he said. "The rash only just appeared. You'll need to find out from her when she first suspected that something was wrong, and then we'll need a list of the men who've been with her in that time. I'll need to see them all, and we'll need to find out if any of them have been with any of the other girls."

Jean blanched as he spoke, no doubt displeased by the potential disaster Lorraine's illness posed for her business. If word got out that Jean's girls weren't as clean as everyone thought, the damage might well spell the end of the pub. Lucien had always wished that Jean might find a better life for herself away from this place but he could not be glad that she was threatened under these circumstances, and his heart broke for her, knowing how worried she must have been, and how she had no one to turn to for support. Well, she did have Maureen, he reminded himself, and that counted for something.

"It might be rather a long list," she said dejectedly. "Strange, how something so small we can't even see it could spread so quickly and cause so much harm."

"Yes," he agreed sadly, thinking less of disease and more of how a few thoughtless words from him had spelled an end to their happiness and shattered all his dreams for the future. "It's treatable, though," he assured her. "We can fix this, Jean. It may be a bit difficult, in the beginning, but there doesn't have to be any lasting damage."

 _And we could fix ourselves, too,_ he thought, _if we tried._ It would be damn near impossible, he knew, for Jean to forget her pain, for her to realize that whatever she feared love was not beyond her reach. _You're the same as all the rest, and as far as you're concerned I'm just a whore._ Those words floated through his mind now, as he stood looking at Jean and recalling the hurt in her eyes as she'd left him. She had never been _just a whore_ to him, had been _everything_ to him, but she was too accustomed to disappointment and he was too reckless to reassure her. If only there was some way, he thought, some way for him to show her the truth of it all, some way for him to give her a glimpse of what he really saw when he looked at her, how he really felt. If only there was some way he could prove to her that she was worthy, and that he adored her.

"Ever the optimist, aren't you, Doctor Blake?" she said with a sad little smile, as if she had read his very thoughts.

In fact no one had ever accused Lucien of anything of the sort; his life had been full of loss and chaos, and he dealt in the business of death every day. There had been a bleak period after the war when he'd thrown himself whole-heartedly into danger, knowing he might die and almost longing for it, longing for an end, unable to see any sort of hope for the future. Even when he'd first come to Ballarat he'd found it miserable and grim with nothing at all to recommend it, had felt himself a shell of the man he had been before the war, the man he wanted to be. It was Jean who made him hope. It was Jean who made him feel like himself for the first time in decades, Jean who made him smile, and reminded him of the joy that could be found if only he shared his heart with another. If he was an optimist, it was only where she was concerned, and only by the grace of her gentle hands.

"Guilty, I suppose," he said.

"Come on, then," she turned, already making her way towards the stairs. "I'll show you out."

Lucien knew a dismissal when he heard one, and so he followed her down the stairs, across the dining room, to the back door. When she said softly _good-bye, Doctor Blake,_ he answered her as gently as he could, and then he stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine. As he made his way across the carpark his thoughts were racing, and by the time he settled behind the wheel a plan was already forming in his mind. Jean would not let him back into the pub except in his role as physician to the girls, and he did not doubt that if he tried to press his case under those circumstances she would mistrust him. But he _had_ to tell her how sorry he was, had to prove to her that the love they had begun to cultivate together deserved a chance to bloom. If she would not speak to him, then, there was only course of action left to him.

He would write her a letter.


	51. Chapter 51

_1 October 1959_

It was taking rather longer than Jean had anticipated, sorting through the details surrounding Lorraine's illness. Lucien had come round once a day, to check in on his patient and administer her treatment, but after that first day Jean made a point of finding something else to do whenever she heard the sound of his gentle knock upon the back door. Let Maureen take him upstairs, let Lorraine greet him herself; he knew his business, and had no need of her assistance with it. After their first meeting Lorraine had warmed to the good Doctor considerably, and no longer needed Mrs. Beazley to hold her hand. Which was just as well, as far as Jean was concerned, because standing in the same room with him was unendurable to her.

He had been so kind, that September day when he first arrived to look after Lorraine, but it was his kindness that devastated Jean so, for it was his kindness she had begun to fall in love with, and it was his kindness she could not reconcile with his apparent lack of regard for her. How could he be so kind, and yet suggest she take Derek Alderton to bed? How could he be so kind, and yet watch her with yearning in his eyes, as if he did not understand that what he wanted could not ever come to pass? Jean could not bear the indignity of submitting herself to a man, losing her freedom, her chance to make her own choices, and she certainly couldn't bear it for the sake of a man who had so carelessly offered her to another, and if such indignity could be borne the town would eat them both alive for their foolishness. It was for the best, that she not see him again, but each time he set foot in the pub a weak, desperate piece of her heart began to cry out for him, and so she avoided him, most entirely. It would be easier to forget him, if she did not see him at all.

At least, that's what she told herself.

The pub had been busy over the last fortnight, and Jean had been busy. By the grace of God none of the other girls had shared a customer with Lorraine. It was a stroke of luck, but not an entirely improbable one; most of the customers were regulars, and most of them had a favorite girl. Oh, they'd take another if their preferred girl was otherwise occupied, and some of them liked a variety, and some only set foot in the pub once. It seemed that Lorraine had been blessed; her customers had either been one-offs, or thoroughly dedicated to her. Once Jean had the list of names it had been her most uncomfortable duty to seek the gentlemen out; those who came regularly Jean had taken aside as soon as they walked in the door, and sent them trotting straight out again to see Doctor Blake. The ones who were not regulars, the ones who had only seen Lorraine once and never returned, well. They were on their own.

Jean had been worried, initially, about the reputation of the pub, but while a few of the gentlemen had been a bit wild-eyed when they left her none of them had caused much of a fuss. Perhaps they thought it was their comeuppance for sleeping with a whore, a consequence they'd visited upon themselves. Perhaps they'd been too concerned about what they planned to tell their wives to spare a moment for casting blame. Whatever the cause, business carried on, and for that Jean was very grateful.

One point of concern in all of it, however, was the revelation that Lorraine's soldier had not been to see her in a month. He'd disappeared around the time she first started showing symptoms of her illness, and never given her any sort of explanation for his sudden absence. Maureen had - through methods Jean did not question - discovered that the soldier was the only man any of the girls had ever talked to about the Doctor's visits, that Lorraine had been loose-lipped as a result of her fondness for him. Knowing that, Jean thought it likely that the soldier was the one who had passed that information onto Derek Alderton. He had been seeing Lorraine for months before the Major turned up, and so Jean thought it terribly unlikely he'd been planted there specifically to spy on Lucien, but the knowledge that he had disappeared not long after the Major's threats, around the same time Lorraine fell ill, left Jean uneasy and full of doubts. Each time the door opened her gaze snapped there at once, wondering if was Lorraine's soldier or Major Alderton come to wreak havoc, but there had been no sign from either of them.

Their absence did not reassure her; she did not believe, not for one moment, that Major Alderton had given up his chase. He had seemed almost maniacal in his dedication to harassing her, had gone to such lengths to make life unpleasant for Lucien, that she rather got the sense it was a mission he would pursue whole-heartedly until at last it all came to a bitter end. It had been early August when last she saw him, and now it was October, but the passing of the days only made her anxious, as she worried over what might happen when next he showed his face. Perhaps learning that Lucien was no longer welcome at the Lock and Key would be enough to send him on his way. But if it wasn't…

Well. She'd deal with each new problem as it came.

And, in fact, a problem came for her on a cool Thursday morning. Jean had been clearing away the last of the breakfast things when Maureen found her in the kitchen, an envelope clutched in her hands.

"Mrs. Beazley?" she said apprehensively. "This just arrived for you."

Jean took her time stacking away the last dish, wiping her hands dry on her apron. The last letter she'd received had been from Major Alderton, bearing the not entirely unwelcome news of his departure. Would this letter announce his return? If so, she'd rather burn it than read it.

"Does it say who it's from?" Jean asked before she took it.

Maureen shook her head, watching Jean in nervous anticipation.

Jean shared those nerves. A letter with no return address did not bode well, as far as she was concerned, but loath as she was to read it she knew that she must, so at last she reached out, and relieved Maureen of the burden she carried.

"Let's see what it says, shall we?"

Maureen crossed her arms over her chest, watching Jean closely, as if she meant to protect Jean from the contents of that letter with the strength of her own two hands, and Jean loved her for it. The address of the Lock and Key and Jean's own name were written neatly on the front of the envelope in thick black ink, and the stamps and markings upon it indicated that the letter had come from within Ballarat, which Jean found intriguing. Who would bother sending a letter, when they knew where to find her? Why not just come inside?

She got her answer the moment she unfolded the letter.

 _My dear Jean,_ it began, and she knew at once who had sent it, and grief rolled over her in waves. Lucien had come to the pub every day for nearly two weeks, but Jean had refused to see him, and now he had done this thing, had written her a letter, would force her to hear him, no matter how much she did not want to, no matter how deeply she feared the impact that letter might have on her own wounded heart. It was cruel of him, she thought, to force her hand in this way, and for a moment she considered throwing the letter away unread. But there was a piece of her heart that loved him still, and it was that piece that won the day. Jean would hear him out.

"Not to worry, love," she said to Maureen. "It's personal. Nothing to be afraid of."

And then, before Maureen could ask a question, Jean marched smartly out of the kitchen and straight up the stairs with the letter clutched in her hands, hardly daring to breathe until her door was closed and locked behind her, and she was curled up in her favorite armchair. She could not bear the thought of having an audience while she read this particular missive.

 _My dear Jean,_ the letter began.

_Words cannot express how deeply I regret my foolishness, and the pain I have caused you. I know what I have done, and how I seem to have proved your every fear founded. It is that, more than anything, I regret. I regret making you believe, even for a moment, that anyone - least of all myself - could think of you as no more than a whore._

A gasp escaped her as she read, seeing those words written down so plainly. It hurt as much now as it had done in August, perhaps more so for it seemed he had, somehow, looked into the very heart of her, and seen her deepest fears. That she was not worthy of love, that she had tainted her very soul with her choices and would never again know happiness, that a life of peace and the little garden she dreamed of would be forever out of her reach as penance for her sins. How could he have read her so plainly, when she was sure she'd never shared those doubts with him? That he should find her deepest insecurity and write it boldly upon the page left her shaken, and she read on, wondering whether she ought to hate him or love him for this insight.

_But it seems to me that I have been remiss. I was blinded by the happiness I found with you, and did not perhaps speak as plainly or as often as I should have of my own thoughts. And it seems to me I did not allow you to do the same. The way we fell in together…it was not planned, Jean. I did not pursue you only for pleasure. I was trying to find some way to be near you, and it seemed to me that this was my only course of action. Tell me, truly, if I had offered to take you to dinner, would you have accepted? If you would have, then more fool me. I believed you would not._

_And I do not regret one single moment we spent together. Every second with you was a gift._

Jean read the letter hungrily, hardly daring to breathe. Later she would look over it again and weep, to hold this declaration of his affection in her hands while she knew that they were not meant to be; later she would weep, to think how she felt much the same, that their every meeting had been precious, that he had brought her joy and a taste of love, but in the moment she only devoured his words, focused only on the way his hand had scrawled the letters across the page.

_But we have known one another for such a little while, Jean, and I have wounded you. There is so much about you I didn't yet have the chance to learn, and it is your heart I wish to know, as well as I know your body._

Later she would read that line again and blush at the memory of his hands against her skin.

_You compel me, Jean. You, whole and entire, not just the piece of yourself you allowed me to share but all of you. If you do not wish to speak to me again I understand, I do. But I could not give up this one last chance to tell you how deeply I care for you, and how much I wish to know you again, to know you better still, to share all of myself with you and accept whatever you will allow in return. If you do not hate me, if you are willing to be my friend, as we once agreed, then please, write to me. If you have set your heart against me, only tell me so, and I'll not bother you again. But if you don't, I beg of you, write to me as one friend to another, as a friend who has been wronged, and I will write to you as a friend who wishes only to make amends._

_I remain yours, most completely,_

_Lucien_


	52. Chapter 52

_16 October 1959_

_Dear Jimmy_

Lucien stared at those two words, frowned, and reached for the whiskey glass close at hand. It was perhaps a bit early in the day to begin drinking, but it was Friday, and he had no further appointments, and besides, he felt rather in need of some fortification. Mrs. Penny was still puttering about in the kitchen but she'd be gone soon enough, and then Matthew Lawson would come round for dinner, and then Lucien would spend the next two days entirely alone. A little whiskey was warranted, he thought.

It had been over a fortnight since he'd finally found the courage to mail his letter to Jean, and yet no word had come from her. Though he had his moments Lucien was not foolish enough to cling to hope where there was none; he had said his piece, and begged her to answer him, and she had not. The silence spoke for her; in that silence he heard her regrets, and her anger, and her grief, and he knew that no little note from him would be sufficient to undo the pain Jean had suffered over the last twenty years. She had been, as every man and woman must be, shaped by the challenges she'd faced in her life, and perhaps it had been naive of him to think that love alone would be enough to make her forget all the struggles and all the losses she'd endured before they met. No matter how he loved her he could not change their circumstances.

And so he had undertaken to respond to Jimmy's letter at last. He might have waited too long to answer; it had been a month since he'd received that letter, and the position Jimmy spoke of might not be vacant any longer. But even if it wasn't, there was still a chance Jimmy might be able to find some occupation for him, and it was occupation Lucien needed, some way to distract himself from the ache in his chest, some way to banish the memories of Jean's smile and her gentle hands. Try though he might, however, the words would not come to him. It seemed the logical thing, to leave behind the pastoral festering town of Ballarat in favor of the blessed modernism of London, to find himself a more prestigious position and a healthy pay rise, to rejoin the world he'd been hiding from. And yet, though Ballarat seemed to have nothing at all to recommend it, Lucien did not truly want to leave.

Perhaps it was Matthew, who kept him here. Perhaps it was Alice, clever and strange and always a delight to talk to. Perhaps it was the enticement of the occasional murder to engage his fondness for riddles, or perhaps it was the way he felt he could take a deep breath here, unhindered by the endless press of humanity that swallowed him in larger cities. Perhaps it was Agnes Clasby, brittle and fierce, who'd box him round the ears if she heard he intended to leave. And perhaps, more than anything else, it was the postman, and the thought that maybe finally, maybe today would be the day when a letter came from Jean.

Once more he tried to put pen to paper, once more he failed, sighed, and took a drink. Perhaps writing this letter was a task best kept for another day.

His suspicions seemed to be proved in a moment, as between one breath and the next there came a gentle knock upon his office door, and then Mrs. Penny was peering around it. She watched him warily; she had been treating him as if he were made of glass since that August day when she'd discovered him drunkenly cursing and banging on the piano, as if she feared he might at any moment dissolve once more into the madness that had claimed in the wake of Jean's rejection.

"Mail for you, Doctor Blake," she said from the doorway.

"Yes, please, thank you," he answered, rising to his feet. She took that as permission to enter the office and met him halfway, passing him the letter and then scurrying off again as quickly as she could, closing the door behind her with a soft _snap._

As she departed Lucien took a moment to examine the letter he held in his hands. The envelope was plain, and bore no return address, no indication as to the identity of its sender. The markings and stamps upon it indicated it had come from within Ballarat, which gave him hope, and the neat penmanship with which his own named and address had been carefully inscribed upon the front gave him more hope still. Oh, he had no notion what Jean's handwriting looked like, but he'd eat his own hat if that letter hadn't been written by a woman.

He carried it back to his desk in trembling hands, carefully opened it and retrieved the handwritten pages, and then sank into his chair with them.

 _Dear Dr. Blake,_ the letter began, _I hope you will forgive me for the long delay in my response._

The letter _had_ been written by Jean; time seemed to freeze, as he realized what it was he was holding, that it was her words he was reading upon the page. He hardly drew breath as he read, his heart pounding with a desperate, wild hope.

_To tell you the truth, I don't quite know what to say. I think you and I both know it would be foolish to pretend we are no more than friends. A man like you and a woman like me could never be only friends, particularly in light of how much we have shared with one another._

Lucien felt suitably chastised by that; she was right, of course. They could hardly be _friends,_ now that he knew how it felt to be inside her, now that he knew the taste of her skin beneath his lips, now that he knew the sound of her voice crying out his name in rapture. He had no intention of being only her friend, not when he loved her, longed for her as deeply as he did, and perhaps it had been unscrupulous of him to suggest such a thing in the first place, knowing he did not mean it. Jean, of course, had seen through him at once.

_Against my better judgment, I could not let your letter go unanswered. You set aside your own pride to write so earnestly to me, and I suppose it's only fair that I extend you the same courtesy._

_Firstly let me say, I think you know that I enjoyed our time together as much as you did. I think you know I would never have opened my door to you at all if I did not care for you. However badly things may have gone between us, I felt that must be said. But life is not always fair, and the things that we want are not always the things that we receive, in the end._

_You asked me in your letter whether I would have accepted your invitation to dinner. Perhaps your assumptions are correct; perhaps I would have said no. But you never asked, Doctor Blake, and so we will never know what I might have said._

Lucien was momentarily stunned. He had always assumed that there was no chance of Jean's accepting him, that there was only one way for him to reach her. Had she not told him so herself? He couldn't remember, now. So much of their relationship had been based on assumption and inference, rather than outright discussion, and the waters they tread had grown too murky for him to see through their depths.

_Does that shock you? It shocked me, as I considered it. I realized that if you had approached me, not as a customer approaches a whore but as a man courts a woman, I might not have turned you away. It might have been quite nice, to be wooed. But you see, even you, Doctor Blake, who so earnestly claims to have never considered me a whore, understood that such a courtship is not meant for the likes of me._

_Even if you had, though, sent me flowers and taken me to dinner and walked with me through the park, I think we still would have ended the same way. What you have not ever seemed to understand, Doctor Blake, is that what we want can never be. Can you imagine the gossip, if you were seen out with me? Can you imagine the humiliation should I take your arm at some society event and find myself in a room full of men who have purchased the use of my girls? Some of the men you enjoy drinks with at the Colonists' have had me, Doctor Blake. Oh, that was many years ago, but few men forget their conquests, I think, and they would have laughed at you, and sneered at me. And what woman wants to see a doctor who is known to associate with prostitutes? What man would send his wife to such a physician? You stood to lose your livelihood, and your reputation, stood to ruin the good standing of your family name, and for what? How did you foresee us carrying on, Doctor Blake?_

Lucien's heart sank. He had hoped that his letter might have given Jean some courage, might have reassured her of the depth of his regard for her, but these words were not dripping with affection, were not an invitation for his return. In fact, he felt rather like a schoolboy being lectured. And she had a point, he could not deny that; he had completely disregarded the potential for disaster inherent in their relationship, had not spared a moment's thought for how difficult things might be, if their connection to one another became public knowledge. Matthew Lawson had tried to warn him, but Lucien had shrugged off those well-intentioned words, and now it seemed he was paying the price for his foolishness.

_You're right, that there's rather a lot we never said to one another. You're right, too, that we have only known each other such a little while. And whatever we might feel, whatever we might hope, a few short months and a few hours in bed do not amount to love._

_But they can lay the foundation for love, Lucien. And much as it grieves me to say it, much as it goes against logic and everything I have ever learned about myself and my business, I think we were on our way to love, you and I. You said the words. Perhaps you said them in haste, because you wanted to convince me to stay. Perhaps you meant them honestly. Perhaps you find love easier to name than I do. But I think, truly, I might have loved you, in time._

_That is why I have been avoiding you. You're a clever man, I'm sure you noticed my absence each time you've come to check in on Lorraine. I could have loved you, but the world we live in will never allow it, and it will go easier for us both, if we don't have to see one another._

Lucien's mouth hung slack-jawed as he read. He wanted to rejoice, to know that Jean had felt so much for him, that she had been as deeply affected by their connection as Lucien had been himself, but there was a terrible sort of finality to her words that left him reeling. How could she turn her back on love? Just for the sake of her pride, his reputation? Those were obstacles he felt they could overcome, if only Jean were willing, but it seemed she was not willing at all.

_And it must be said, too, that I did not leave you only because of your unkind words regarding Major Alderton. I know you meant no offense, and I have thought often of our conversation that day. You spoke in haste, and it must seem to you that I left in haste. Please know that I didn't. I had given much consideration to our future, and saw no way forward for us. It was not only that conversation that made me call an end to things between us. It only moved things along._

That brought Lucien scant comfort. At least he knew she did not hate him for what had happened between them that day, but he now held evidence in his hands that she had already set her heart against him, and that was a bleak thought.

 _You asked me if I have set my heart against you,_ her next line read, and his heart gave a funny little leap, for it felt almost as if she had read his very thoughts in that moment, as if she stood in that room with him.

_It is not my heart that turned aside from you. It is not my heart that fears we could never be. It is not my heart that tells me that love is beyond my grasp. My heart longs for you, Lucien. It is my head that cannot be swayed._

_I fear I've said too much. I fear that further communication will only hurt us both. But your letter moved me, and I had to answer you. I miss you, Lucien. For all the pain our friendship - if that is the word you wish to use - has brought to us both, I miss you. You gave me hope, at a time when I thought hope was beyond me. I know now that it is, but that does not make the loss of that hope any easier to bear._

_You say you wish to know me. After this letter I hope that you will know me better, and understand me. If you wish to write to me again I will hear you, Lucien, but I ask that you continue to only visit the pub in your role as a doctor. Spare us both the hardship of meeting face-to-face, and yet being unable to reach out to one another as we used to do. Those days are behind us, Lucien, whatever lies ahead._

_Yours,_

_Mrs. J. Beazley_

Lucien leaned back in his chair, holding Jean's letter against his chest. Anger filled him, anger at the circumstances that had left her so hopeless, anger at his own foolishness in not pursuing her more gently, anger at Derek bloody Alderton for forcing his hand, anger at the way life's cruelties had left Jean so despondent. She spoke to him of love, and hope, told him that she missed him, and yet she could not see, as he could see, that they were not beyond salvation. Perhaps the time had come for him to show her.

Lucien refilled his glass, threw aside the piece of paper he'd intended to use for his letter to Jimmy, and placed a fresh page on the desktop in front of him. Jean's letter, he felt, merited an immediate response.


	53. Chapter 53

_30 November 1959_

For once, Jean Beazley could say honestly that _everything is just fine, thank you very much._ Lucien's dedicated care had ensured that Lorraine made a full recovery, and while the girl was not yet seeing customers - and likely never would again, if the way she cursed her soldier was any indication of her feelings on the matter - her spirits were greatly improved, and for that Jean was grateful. No lasting damage had been done to her business, and the steady stream of customers brought a steady stream of coins to Jean's pockets, each one a promise tucked away for a better day. No word had come from Derek Alderton, and in truth Jean had all but forgotten the man. Why should she think of him now, when he had made no move to reach her, when he had not shown his face, when all was quiet and peaceful in Ballarat, and Jean was happy?

Letters had been flying thick and fast between Jean and Lucien since mid-October. Though she had initially thought to put an end to that means of communication she found she had become almost addicted to his words, and with each letter she received her heart only softened more towards him. In the letters he was forthright and sincere in a way they had never managed to be when speaking face-to-face. With all the sweet curiosity of a new lover he filled his letters with questions, questions about her childhood, her family, about her latest trip to the Rex - Jean did enjoy a good film - about _her_. For each answer Jean gave she received another in turn; while she told him about Christopher, their courtship and their marriage and the was his death had brought her world crashing down, Lucien told her of his own wife, how he had wed her, told her stories of his darling little girl, told her a little about the end of his own world, when the Japanese came. Through those letters Jean learned more about Lucien than she ever had in bed, and she treasured each and every one.

One particular Monday afternoon Jean was standing behind the bar, laughing with her girls while they enjoyed a spot of lunch, when a wild-eyed young man came walking through the front door carrying a large vase full of bright, expensive flowers.

"Pardon me?" he called uncertainly, lingering near the doorway. He was blushing to the roots of his sandy-blonde hair, and his eyes darted around as if he could not find a safe place for them to land. Some of the girls laughed, but Jean took pity on him.

"Can I help you?" she asked, walking out from behind the bar and wiping her hands on her apron as she went.

"I've got a delivery here," he said. "For a Mrs. Beazley?"

His expression told her plainly that he feared he'd wandered into the wrong place, and the frank stare Elizabeth directed his way left him stuttering. _Poor love,_ Jean thought, grinning.

"That's me," she said.

"Right. These are for you, then."

The lad had no sooner placed the vase in her hands than he turned and bolted, and Jean did not spare another thought for him; she was too distracted by the beautiful flowers she now held. This was no dozen roses; the vase was full to bursting with a variety of blooms, all brightly colored and cheerful, the vase tied with a blue ribbon. Whoever had purchased these flowers had paid dearly for them - and, knowing what she did about the florist's judgmental attitude, they'd likely paid double for the delivery, as well.

"Go on then, Mrs. Beazley!" Elizabeth called out from the bar. "Who are they from?"

The other girls echoed her question, delighted by this most unexpected of surprises. No one sent flowers to the pub, and certainly not to Mrs. Beazley; in the early days of their courtship Christopher had occasionally turned up at her door with his hands full of wildflowers, but after they wed Jean grew flowers in her own garden, and he never bothered, any more. She had never received such a gift, but she fancied she knew who might be behind it, and try though she might she could not find it in her heart to be cross; the flowers were too beautiful, and the gesture was too sweet, and her heart was too weak with longing.

"Let us see!" the girls chorused, and so Jean returned to the bar, smiling.

As she stepped behind it she placed the flowers on the bar, and the girls crowded around, sniffing at the petals and crowing about how lovely they were. It was that, more than what the flowers represented, that sent a pang of sorrow lancing through Jean's heart; these girls were young, and lovely, and full of life, and yet romance remained out of their reach, their world so narrow and so devoid of hope. They deserved better, she thought. _We all do._

"There's a card," Maureen murmured from the end of the bar, gesturing towards to the little white placard stuck in the middle of the flowers. Of all the girls she alone had not gone all soft and mooney over Jean's delight; she watched the flowers warily, as if she suspected they might show teeth and bite the next hand that reached for them.

"Oh, Mrs. Beazley, you have to know who it is!"

"Tell us!"

"Read it, please!"

The girls would not let it pass, and so Jean reached for the card. For a moment she was afraid; the flowers could just as easily have come from Major Alderton as from Lucien, a warning and not a declaration of affection, but as she read the card her doubts were dispelled in a moment.

 _Every woman deserves flowers,_ it read, _and you more than most. I remain, completely, yours._

There was no name - he was clever enough not to draw such attention to himself - but the handwriting was familiar, and dear to her, after having read so very many of his letters. It was Lucien who had done this thing; Lucien, who had heard her say that dinner dates and walks through the park and flowers were not meant for her, and who had sent them to her anyway.

The girls cooed over the card, laughing - Elizabeth reckoned it was from Doctor Blake, and everyone agreed, and Jean did not try to convince them otherwise - and as they did Jean thought about the man who had sent them, and why. Lucien remained determined that they might find a way forward, together. Lucien told her, over and over, how he valued her company, how he believed she was more than she gave herself credit for, and now he had gone and done this thing, this sweet, wonderful thing, just for her.

 _Is he right?_ Jean wondered as she looked at the flowers, as Lucien's card was passed from hand to hand, as Maureen watched, frowning. The life she wanted, a quiet home, a bed with Lucien in it, a garden for flowers, a moment's peace; could she really hope to claim such joys for herself? She _wanted_ to, wanted to believe him when he told her that their circumstances were not as dire as she claimed. She remembered his fine house, and his soft bed, remembered his kitchen and his empty sunroom begging for the touch of a gardener's hand, and she remember the way they had sat together at his table, comfortable and happy with one another, and the seeds of hope Lucien had planted in her heart began to blossom, ever so slowly.

* * *

_Dear Doctor Blake,_

_I have received your gift, and I have been moved by your kindness. The flowers are beautiful, and they are sitting on my writing table now, providing me with quite a lovely view. It has been a long, long time since last I had any flowers I did not purchase myself. But you know that already, don't you? That's why you sent them._

_I know what you mean to do, with these letters, with your gifts. You mean to show me that there is a chance for us, still. With every word we've written to one another I have come to know your heart, and you mine. I know that your heart is gentle, and that you are full of a kind of optimism I admire. I would like to believe, as you do, that a happy ending lies in store for us both._

_But how are we to arrive at such a point? I have told you often of my dreams of moving to Adelaide, and I have nearly enough funds saved up for such a venture. Another year, or two, or three at the most, and I might well be shot of this place. Maureen can take it over for me, and she can run it as she sees fit. She's a clever girl, she has a good head for business. I will not worry for my girls, with her in charge._

_That is my dream, Lucien, and it is within my power to make it a reality. But what of you? You have made no offers, nor would I accept them from you, when we have known each other no more than six months. I could not trust my person, my future, to a man I had known so briefly, nor could I so easily sell my independence. It has been a very long time since I have had to answer to anyone save myself. Perhaps you have not considered a permanent state of affairs between us, Lucien - if you have, please don't tell me, for I could only think you mad - but permanence is the only temptation that might sway me. I could not take such a risk lightly._

_No doubt you're wondering, then, why I bother mentioning it at all. This is why, Lucien. In a year, or two, or three at the most, I will be free. I will be free to make a life of my own choosing, in whatever manner I see fit. By then young Christopher may not even be stationed in Adelaide any longer; by then I might seek to make a home for myself elsewhere. If you are dedicated to this dream of yours, Lucien, if you are determined that we should try to make a go of it, together, I ask you then, please, to wait. Wait for me, Lucien. Write to me, as you have done. I will send for you, when next the girls have need of a doctor, and I will not hide from you when you come. If you will wait for me, then, one day, perhaps, we can both of us start anew._

_This is perhaps more than you bargained for. I hesitated even to write it. But you have left me hopeful, Lucien. You have given me cause to dream of something better. I told you I could not see a way forward for us, but the way has been made clear to me, now. My answer to you is not never. It is only not yet._

_In your last letter you asked me what we are up to, here at home. The truth is that I have very little to report. Your friend has not come to call. Lily has left us, and a new girl named Anna has come to take her place. Tomorrow is the first of December, and with December comes Christmas. It is quite my favorite time of year. I will decorate the upstairs of the pub, and I will buy small presents for my girls, and I will go to midnight mass on Christmas Eve. Does that surprise you, still? It comforts me. The old familiar songs, the candlelight, the sense that, just for once, all is right with the world. I know you do not care for the church, but it remains a part of me, always._

_Write to me, when you can. Tell me if you solved your murder, and tell me if you are glad of it. Tell me what you will do for Christmas. And tell me, please, if you will wait for me, or if you think me mad for even suggesting it._

_All my love,_

_Jean_

As Lucien finished reading Jean's latest letter he found himself smiling so broadly his cheeks ached from the strain of it. Somehow, some way, at last, Jean had begun to see, as he did, that their predicament was not hopeless. She had asked him to wait for her; he rather felt as if he had been waiting for her all his life, and another year would not cost him so very dear. In fact, he was certain that it would not take so very long; his pockets were deep, and his heart was full of love. He began to pen his response at once. 


	54. Chapter 54

_24 December 1959_

"Here's to you then, you grumpy old bugger," Lucien said, raising his glass in toast.

Matthew barked out a laugh before raising his own glass, letting them clink together.

"Here's to me," he said, grinning, as he and Lucien took a drink together.

It was not the most miserable Christmas Lucien had ever celebrated, but it was one of the quieter ones. When he was very small, Christmas had been _maman's_ domain, and she had taken great joy in decorating every inch of the house, singing along while his father played carols on the old piano, working with their housekeeper to whip up enough of Thomas's favorite biscuits to feed an army. The wonder of those Christmases, the twinkling lights, the gentle sense of peace that seemed to color every moment, had never left him, even after _maman_ did, but it became only a memory. The next few holidays after her passing were a grim affair; Thomas had not done much in the way of decorating, and the house was not full of the scent of fresh-baked treats, and no music floated on the air. Tension had grown up between Lucien and his father; Lucien spent more time at school than he did at home, only returning for his brief holidays and always thinking longingly of the moment when he would at last be allowed to leave Ballarat behind him. They did not know one another, really, Lucien and Thomas; as a young boy Lucien had changed and grown by the minute, and each time he returned to his father's house he felt himself a stranger there. But Thomas's word was law, and he did not want a son who argued and asked questions; he wanted a son who would _obey._ Holidays became marked by that tension, by the quarrels that inevitably broke out, by Lucien's growing resentment for his father. Lucien was eighteen, the last year he spent Christmas with his father; after that he left for brighter horizons, and did not return.

Christmas at university had been a rowdy affair, and Christmas in the army doubly so. Christmas with Mei Lin had been wonderful, and Christmas with Li even better; there was nothing like a child, he thought, to bring the joy and the wonder back to the season. He had not marked Christmas while he was in the camp, and the years after that...well, those years had been bleak, and full of trouble. In 1958 he'd celebrated Christmas in Edinburgh with old friends, his glass full and snow falling softly beyond the window, and he had thought of his family, and lamented.

So much could change, in just a year.

The good rapport he had begun to restore between himself and Jean had left his heart light, and he had in a fit of whimsy determined that he ought to have a Christmas tree. Mrs. Penny had been delighted by the idea, and had assisted him in decorating it, and had baked enough biscuits to put his memories to shame. Christmas Day fell on a Friday, this year, and so Lucien had insisted that Mrs. Penny take the entire week off, and not return to him until the following Monday. She had laid in a store of stew and materials for making sandwiches and a few other odds and ends, no doubt worried about how he'd feed himself for such an extended period, but Lucien knew just how many biscuits were currently stored in tins in the larder, and he knew he'd be just fine. He had more than enough to see him through, more than enough to share with Matthew this Christmas Eve.

"What will you do with yourself tomorrow, then?" Matthew asked.

Originally Lucien had intended to have Matthew and Dr. Harvey and young Danny round for tea on Christmas day, but an idea had come to him, and he could not shake the sense that there was somewhere else he ought to be on that day. Jean loved Christmas, she'd told him so herself. She'd been receptive to his advances, and as far as he was concerned it was high time they saw one another face-to-face once more. What better moment, then, than Christmas Day? What could be better than turning up at her door, with a bouquet and a present held in trembling hands? Perhaps she'd just send him away, but somehow Lucien thought not. Somehow, he rather thought she might invite him in, and the thought of sharing tea with Jean in her comfortable parlor on Christmas Day, while the girls danced laughing through the corridors, while every heart was full of love, was quite the most beautiful thing he could imagine.

"Oh, I think I'll just have a quiet day," he said glibly. "Might go visit mum."

That was not a lie; he did intend to go and visit his mother's grave in the morning, to leave flowers by her stone before making his way to Jean's. It was only right, he thought, on Christmas.

"And you, Matthew?"

Though Matthew's face gave no evidence his feelings the tips of his ears turned a little pink, and Lucien was grinning before he even spoke.

"Alice has asked me round for lunch," Matthew said stiffly.

"That's wonderful," Lucien answered earnestly. It _was_ wonderful, that Matthew and Alice were getting on so well, that Matthew would be able to spend his Christmas with a lovely woman who was just as brilliant and just as lonely as he was. Perhaps, Lucien thought, they could ease one another's loneliness. Perhaps he and Jean could do the same.

"I've never much cared about Christmas," Matthew told him. "Not since I was young, and mum used to drag us all to church."

Neither Matthew nor Lucien was particularly devout; apart from his father's funeral Lucien had not stepped foot in a church for years, and he was certain Matthew was the same. Jean, though, Jean was a different sort; she was planning to go to midnight mass that evening.

 _It comforts me_ , she'd told him in one of her letters. _The old familiar songs, the candlelight, the sense that, just for once, all is right with the world._

Would it feel that way to him? Lucien wondered. To step into the sanctuary in the still of the night, to see the long shadows cast by the flickering candles, to smell the incense, to sing the songs whose words had been inscribed on his heart so long ago he could not recall a time when he did not know them; would that bring him peace? Would it feel more like Christmas if he stood before an altar, blessed by the music? Maybe it would, he thought. Maybe it would, if Jean was there.

What would she do, he asked himself, if he turned up there? She could hardly throw him out of the church. Though he had all but convinced himself she would not turn him away should he show up at her door on Christmas morning some doubt lingered, as she had not offered him any invitation. But the church was not her home, was not a place he'd been barred from visiting; it was neutral ground, and Lucien had been baptized there, same as Jean. He had every right to attend a service, if he wished. And perhaps, he thought now, perhaps if he did go the church, if he did slide onto the pew beside her, if they did stand together to sing, and to pray, perhaps she would see in his actions how he cared for her, how he listened to her, how he adored her. For months now Lucien had written to her in a flood of words; perhaps, he thought, the time had come for actions.

"What is it?" Matthew asked him, his eyes narrowed warily.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Lucien said, lying.

"You've got that look on your face. The one that says you've just had an idea I'm not going to like."

No doubt that was true; they'd been working closely together for nearly a year now, and Matthew was the best friend Lucien had in this town. If anyone could read his face - apart from Jean - he was certain it was Matthew.

"I was just thinking I might go to church," Lucien confessed.

"Why the bloody hell would you want to do that?"

Lucien laughed. "Come now, Matthew," he said. "It's Christmas!"

* * *

Jean had chosen her dress very carefully. Christmas was a special time of year, and she wanted to celebrate the occasion with all the pomp that it required. The night was warm, still, though the hour had grown very late, and in deference to the summer temperature the dress she chose had short cap sleeves that showed off her arms - but not too much; she was going to church, after all. It was a deep, rich shade of emerald green, and fit her quite well. With her hair set, her makeup perfect, she had clasped a small string of pearls around her neck, and then she had gently draped her black widow's veil over her curls. Black pumps, reserved for special occasions, and a matching black handbag completed her ensemble, and when her preparations were complete she made her way out of the pub, the voices of her girls following after her. The Lock and Key was closed to customers on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day - even whores deserved a holiday, Jean thought - and so she had prepared a veritable feast for the young ladies, and they were enjoying it now, eating and drinking their fill while the wireless played scratchy and loud in the background. It was a cheerful, merry scene, and quite at odds with what she found once she stepped inside Sacred Heart.

The number of the faithful shrank, year by year, but Christmas was a different story. The pews were almost all full; everywhere she looked she saw her neighbors decked out in their finest clothes, mothers and fathers prodding their children to keep them awake, to get them to behave, a low murmur of voices filling the sanctuary as no one dared speak above a whisper. She crossed herself reflexively at the font, and then took a seat in one of the empty pews at the back of the church. A few people looked her way, eyebrows raised in surprise or furrowed in disapproval, but their stares did not linger, and Jean did not return them. She kept her gaze focused on the altar at the front of the church, the reason why she had come. The people who filled this place may have turned their backs on her, but she knew that God never would, and it was for God she had come, to celebrate the gift of the Christmas season and lift her voice in song. A few judgmental hypocrites would not keep her from the tenets of her faith.

"Is this seat taken?"

Jean nearly jumped out of her skin; she had been paying so little attention to her surroundings that she had not noticed his arrival, and he'd scared her half to death. But as she looked up at him, heart pounding in her chest, it was relief that overwhelmed her, not fear. For reasons she could not even begin to grasp it was Lucien who stood beside her, Lucien who had come to her in this most holy place, Lucien's smile she saw now, and not the glares of her fellow parishioners. No doubt some of them had marked it, that Doctor Blake was speaking to the local brothel keeper, but for once Jean could not find it in herself to care. Had Christ himself not spoken to prostitutes, broke bread with the tax collectors, taught compassion for every man and woman, no matter how low? As far as she was concerned Lucien's kindness was more in keeping with the spirit of the season than the outrage of her neighbors, and she returned his smile gladly.

"No," she said, and as she spoke she slid to the left, making room for Lucien to come and sit beside her.

She did not know, yet, why he had come. She knew his feelings where the church was concerned were hardly charitable. And yet, he _had_ come; he was sitting beside her, in the stillness of the sanctuary at midnight, had chosen to join her here, in prayer and singing and celebration. It was the first time she had seen him since she told him _not never...only not yet,_ and her heart fluttered in her chest, knowing that she had revealed to him the depth of her own regard for him, and that he had heard those words, and come to her. He had not come knocking on her door uninvited, had not tried to insinuate himself into her bed. He had come with his hat in his hands - literally - to sit beside her in church, had sacrificed his own evening and his own sensibilities just to share this night with her, and in that moment she loved him for it.


	55. Chapter 55

_24 December 1959_

It was a strange and beautiful thing, to share Christmas mass with Lucien. The ritual of it felt familiar, the quiet incantations, the story of the Christ-child, the scent of the incense and the flickering of the candles, the faces of her neighbors, sleepy but holy, somehow, bathed in that glow; all of it felt _right,_ felt to Jean as if this Christmas Eve was unfolding just the way it was meant to. What was not familiar, however, was the sound of Lucien's voice beside her. She had never known, before tonight, that he was a more than competent singer, but sequestered as they were at the back of the church it was his voice she heard above all the others, soft and warm, gently moving through the hymns. It was his voice she heard, responding during the call and answer, his bulk beside her, and his presence warmed her through and through.

Jean had been quite alone in this back pew for years now; Jack had not set foot inside the church since he was fourteen, and young Christopher had left home not long after that. The joy of worship, her love for her God, her comforting faith; there was no one to share in these things, when Jean sat alone, well back from everyone else, isolated from them in more ways than just the physical. Not so, tonight; tonight there was a warm body sitting by her side, reminding her that she was not as alone as she once had been, that she need not be alone ever again, if she did not wish it.

Every piece of the service had been written on her heart over the course of her many years of devoted attendance, and when the time came Jean and Lucien rose with the rest to speak the Our Father. It was the habit of the people in that place and that time to join hands when they prayed that particular prayer. For years Jean had no hand to hold, no one to who would turn to her and murmured softly _peace be with you_ when the prayer was finished, but tonight was a night of changes, a night of revelation, a night of celebration, for as everyone else in the sanctuary joined hands Lucien looked down at her, and offered her his own.

That hand, broad and strong, worn and scarred; that hand of his had traced every line of her body, had brought her shuddering into bliss, and he offered it to her now gently, without expectation, an offer of comfort, of solidarity, an offer to stand beside her now, and perhaps always. She looked at that hand, and knowing what it meant, knowing how things might change between them and wanting it so badly that she ached with it she took a deep breath, and laced her fingers through his, and his answering smile was brighter than the sun. They prayed together, heads bowed in that place, and though Jean spoke the words as clean and clear as ever she did not close her eyes, for she could not tear them away from the sight of her hand, wrapped in his. There was something right about that, too, she thought, something holy in the way they fit together, something faithful and steadfast in the heart of this man who gave no thought to his own reputation, but sought only to love her.

The prayer was a brief one, and when it was ended the congregation turned to one another, a low hum of voices filling the sanctuary - _peace be with you; and also with you -_ but no one spared a glance for Jean and Lucien. He did not release his hold on her, but nor did she pull away; they simply stood, together, their hands linked, and when Jean looked at him he was smiling, still.

"Peace be with you, Jean," he said softly.

"And also with you," she answered. "Lucien."

He deserved that much, she thought, the sound of his given name falling from her lips, and not a frosty _Doctor Blake._ He deserved that much, and more besides; this gesture of his, coming to her _here_ , of all places, holding her hand, on Christmas Eve, was monumental, and it moved Jean more than she could say.

They settled back into their seats, and still he held her hand, and her thoughts began to race.

For months now he had been carefully, tenderly wooing her, had revealed his heart and history to her and allowed her to do the same. She knew him, now, better than she had dreamed of doing before. Those letters of his spoke of his dedication, and filled her heart with hope. _Not now,_ she had told him, _not yet;_ she was not free to courted as another woman might be, would not be truly free until at last she could turn the pub over to someone else. But Lucien had heard those words, and promised her, _for you, Jean, a man could wait a lifetime._ If she told him that the time had not yet come for them to begin explore their connection to one another once more, she knew he would respect it. But in that moment, sitting in that church, holding his hand, Jean realized she didn't want to wait.

She would have to wait, to be his wife - if, indeed, that was what he wanted, if she still wanted the same, a year from now - but there was no reason, really, why she should have to wait to hold him. Her own reputation as the formidable, unconquerable madam was dear to her, but they had so far managed to keep their connection secret in the town - Derek Alderton's interference notwithstanding. Why should he not come by of an evening, as he used to do; why should she not take him upstairs, now and again? If anyone saw and remarked on it they could be assured that the good Doctor had paid handsomely for the privilege, and leave none the wiser. He had paid for her before, and so, she thought, it would not really be a lie; she would simply consider the previous transactions as down payment on future pleasure. He did not balk at her work, he respected her boundaries, he treasured her dearly; why should they not be allowed a little happiness, just between themselves? He had shown her, at every turn, that he believed there was still a chance for them, and with his letters, with his words and his actions and his heart, he had begun to convince her.

The service was winding down; communion would come next, and then a prayer and the final dismissal. Jean often left while her fellow parishioners made their way to the altar; Sacred Heart could not abide the scandal of a whore taking communion in full view of all and sundry, and she was not entirely sure the priest would consent to let her, knowing that she continued in her sinful ways, not as repentant as he would like for her to be.

 _We could leave now,_ she thought, her heart beginning to race at the very idea. _We could leave together, and go somewhere quiet, and talk to one another, as we used to do._ It had been months, now, since they had actually _talked_ to one another, and the thought of a quiet corner, and his gentle voice, and his warm eyes, spent only on her, was a tantalizing one.

In that moment there was nothing she wanted more than simply to be with him, and so she squeezed his hand. At her touch he looked down at her sharply, and she smiled, wanting to reassure him, thinking only how she loved him.

"Let's go, Lucien," she whispered.

He rose at once, and while the rest of the congregation stared straight ahead, awaiting their turn to approach the altar, Lucien and Jean slipped out of the sanctuary, still clinging to one another's hands, their departure unnoticed by anyone.

They emerged into a warm, gentle night. It was very late; the service had begun at midnight, and they'd been inside for nearly an hour. Beyond the church not a soul was stirring; even the leaves in the trees were still, and the stars sparkled above their heads like fairy lights. There was something enchanted about that moment, the silence, the beauty of it, something sacred about Lucien standing beside her, holding her hand. Hope had brought her this far, and she only prayed it would carry her through, just a bit longer.

"Lucien-"

"Jean-"

They spoke one another's names at the same moment, and Lucien laughed at their eagerness, reaching out with his free hand to tuck a wayward lock of her hair behind her ear. The easy intimacy of that gesture, the gentle care with which he touched her, gave her all the confidence she needed to speak. A part of her wondered what he would have said, had she let him go first, but she would never know for certain, for in the moment she could not hesitate, could not wait, even for a second, lest all her hopes turn to dust in her hands.

"Lucien," she said. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

Though the words were innocent enough there was an insinuation in them, and Jean knew that Lucien would hear it. They were standing together in the carpark outside the church, all alone, and the only way for Jean to provide him with a cup of tea would be to bring him back to him to her home, in the still of the night, on Christmas Eve. Or Christmas Day, technically, she supposed, seeing as one day had passed into the next while they sat in the church. She was a woman, inviting a man she cared for, back to her home in the middle of the night, with no one else to see. It was not only tea she intended to give him - it was Christmas, after all - and she knew that he would hear her words, and understand the offer she was truly making. She rather hoped he might rejoice in it.

"I would love one," he said.

And that was that.

* * *

They decided between themselves that Jean would drive; they had both taken their cars to Sacred Heart, but Lucien would feel a bit foolish trailing along after her in his father's old Holden. This way no one need see his car parked behind the Lock and Key come morning - if, indeed, he were lucky enough to stay that long - and he need not part from her, even for a moment. Reluctantly he took his hand from hers, as they both clambered into her ancient truck, and settled onto the seat beside her, watching as she fired the old engine up and guided them smoothly through the deserted town back to her home.

He was not entirely sure why she had asked him to come home with her, but he was not about to let such an invitation go to waste. Perhaps she had come to realize, through his letters, the flowers he'd sent her, the way he'd turned up at the church, how complete his devotion to her truly was. Perhaps she had come to see that they could be happy, with one another, that hope was not lost. Perhaps she wanted him; perhaps she only intended to give him a cup of tea. Whatever the cause, whatever lay in store, Lucien was more than willing to follow where she led.

For once he kept his mouth shut, as they drove to the Lock and Key. There was something reverent about the silence, and he dare not ruin it with words. Instead he watched her, the glow of the occasional streetlamp washing over her beautiful face, the soft drape of the widow's veil over her perfect curls, and soaked in the air of possibility that seemed to hang between them. It felt to him rather as if they were hurtling through the darkness into the light of a new day, as if everything between them were about to change, and he was desperate to see what might happen next. He had been trying, with all his might, to show her that she was worthy of love, that her imagined sins did not have to mean the end of all her happiness, that if she would only give him the opportunity he could love her with all of his heart, all of himself, for all of his days. It seemed to him as if by some struck of luck his efforts were not in vain; it seemed to him that she must have found it in her heart to hope, and he wanted to take that hope, and nurture it, and see it blossom into love.

Soon enough they reached the pub, and Jean killed the engine, stepped out of the car before he had a chance to reach for her. She moved like a woman on a mission, he thought, and he scrambled to follow after her.

The second he was beside her he called her name, once, softly, and she slowed for the briefest of moments. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright, and when he looked at her he could not help but think that she was the loveliest woman he'd ever seen in his life.

"Come with me," she whispered, taking his hand.

He would have followed her anywhere, and so he only nodded, and let her lead him inside.


	56. Chapter 56

_24 December 1959_

Initially when Jean extended her invitation Lucien had begun to suspect that tea was not the only thing on her mind, but he _had_ expected her to at least attempt to maintain the pretense. As a result he was completely thrown onto the back foot when Jean led him, not to the empty stillness of her kitchen where they had shared a cup of tea so many times in the past, but up the narrow staircase at the back of the pub, and down the corridor to her own suite. It was very late, and Lucien was certain the girls were not entertaining customers, but lights shone beneath several of the closed doorways in the warren of the upstairs living quarters, and he heard the faint strains of music and the gentle laughter of the young ladies as he followed along, all bemused, in Jean's wake. It would seem that while some of the girls were sleeping some had begun their Christmas celebrations early, and it would seem that Jean had plans for a celebration all her own.

 _Perhaps she keeps a kettle in the parlor,_ he told himself as Jean opened the door to her suite, as he followed her inside, as she closed the door behind them. His heart was wild, ragged with hope, but he tried to temper that hope as best he could; Jean had told him they would need to wait to resume their relationship until the pub was no longer in her possession, and he had resigned himself to waiting, content to bide his time so long as she might be his reward. Patience had never been his strong suit, but for Jean; for Jean he would do anything.

Strangely enough it seemed to him that _Jean_ was the impatient one now; Jean was the one who still clung to his hand, who did not stop by the sofa in the parlor. It was Jean who did not revisit the prospect of a cup of a tea and a cozy chat but instead continued walking, chin held high, until they reached her bedroom. Lucien's traitorous heart began to pound, as he found himself standing once more at the foot of her bed. He had been there before, more than once, and each time he had known that he was about to hold her, for the terms had been agreed upon in advance. Now, however, though their physical circumstances remained so much the same, he lacked that certainty. He knew how matters _appeared_ to stand, but he did not know what they actually _were,_ and that doubt left him hesitant.

Nothing would be worse, he thought, than for him to speak and ruin this fragile moment, this one shining instant in which all his hopes seemed to hang in the balance. Jean had invited him back to her home in the still of the night, had led him up the stairs and across her parlor and into her bedroom, and while he could draw welcome conclusions from such evidence he was loath to make assumptions lest he lose her once more. And so he held his breath for a moment, watching her.

The color was high in her cheeks, and her bright eyes were wide and shining as she looked at him. The black widow's veil still covered her soft curls, and for a moment he fought a sudden, mad urge to reach out and remove it, to run his fingers through her hair and see her smile. The dress she wore was quite the most beautiful garment of hers he'd ever seen, a deep emerald in color, and lacking in embellishment for it needed none; the dress hugged her body like a second skin, and in the lines and curves of her there was beauty enough to put any diamond to shame. Her small, delicate fingers were still laced through his, and he clung to her fiercely, not wanting to lose a second of their connection to one another. All thoughts of tea fell by the wayside; Lucien had no wants, no needs, no desires in that moment that could not be satisfied by the touch of her gentle hands.

And yet, still, she hesitated, and so too did he. What might have caused Jean's sudden reticence he could not say; she had caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and there was something in her eyes that looked rather like a question. It was a question he longed to answer, and he felt that answer beginning to take shape within his heart.

"Jean," he said softly, reaching out tentatively, cradling her cheek in his palm, his confidence bolstered by the way she leaned into his touch, by the way her eyes fluttered closed as he held her, by the warmth of her skin beneath his hand. "What are the rules here?"

He asked his question gently, for he felt that he must. Always before it was Jean who set the boundaries between them, and Lucien had done his best to respect her wishes. She was the one with the most to lose, he thought - for he did not give a damn about his own reputation - and she was the one who most needed the rules to navigate her own emotions. Everything that had passed between them before, all the beautiful, messy, deliriousness of it, had by virtue of those rules fallen into the category of _business_ , for Jean. So far tonight they had violated several of those rules, so far as Lucien was aware - Jean had taken him upstairs after hours, on a day when she was closed for business, after telling him she was no longer taking customers, without his having made an appointment in advance - and that gave him cause to hope, but there were more rules yet to be broken, and he needed to know now how far beyond the bounds of their previous encounters he might be allowed to travel.

At his question Jean smiled, and opened her eyes.

"No rules tonight, Lucien," she told him softly, and the kick-drum pounding of his heart redoubled in an instant. "This isn't about business," she continued, releasing his hand at last so that she could lift both of hers, her palms pressing against his neck, her fingertips ruffling the edges of his beard. "Tonight is just for me."

And then, before he could even process what she'd told him, Jean lifted herself up onto her toes, and brushed her lips against his gently, fleetingly.

She pulled back at once, blushing and smiling at him shyly; it was the briefest of kisses, but it crashed into Lucien with all the force of a freight train. This gift she had given him, the one thing he had always been denied, the one thing that could not ever be purchased; her kiss, and with it, he knew, came her love, her heart. This was not _business_ , a tumble in exchange for coin, a transaction like so many others she had carried out before. This was not Jean accepting a man who had come to her in search of her services. This was _Jean,_ asking for him, offering herself to him, all of herself, holding no piece of her heart in reserve. This was _Jean,_ touching him because she wanted to, because she cared for him, touching him for her own sake, and for no other reason.

It was a gift he had not expected, and he was blown away by the magnitude of it. His careful letters, his tender wooing of her, appeared to have done their work, and she was trusting herself to him now, had brought down her walls at last and let him see her, vulnerable and full of hope. Such trust, such faith, could not be met with a callous race for pleasure, much as his body cried out for her and the release he knew he would find in her arms. The time had come for him to prove the depth of his devotion to her.

And so he did.

* * *

Jean's heart was racing. She had spent so long doubting herself, had spent so many years convinced that love was beyond her grasp, that her courage had nearly deserted her at the last moment. If she'd asked Lucien for payment she was certain he would have given it to her, and though that might have been the safer option, to maintain her long established boundaries, that was the last thing she wanted in this moment. All she wanted, now, was _Lucien,_ was his arms, his hands, his kisses, for him to hold her with no conditions, and no reservations. She wanted him to love her, as a man loves a woman, as she loved him.

And so before she thought better of it she kissed him once, gently. It had been so long, so very long, since last she'd kissed a man she loved, that a part of her feared she had quite forgotten how. Uncertainty had her pulling away, searching his face for some indication that he understood the gift he had just been given, that he had heard the words she had not said, and in them found proof of her love of him. One look at his face was all the reassurance she needed; his beautiful, blissful smile was soft, and awe-struck, almost, as if he could hardly believe his luck, as if that one too-brief kiss had stunned him into near insensibility.

Would he need further encouragement? She wondered. Did he need her to tell him outright that it was all right, that he could kiss her, touch her, however he pleased, that there would be no hourglass counting down the seconds tonight, that he need not hold himself back from her in any regard?

 _One more kiss,_ she thought faintly. The first had nearly bowled her over, the rush of adrenaline, the wild surge of her want, the briefest taste of the joy she had so long denied herself. His hand was still gently cradling her face, and her own were still clinging to his neck, and so she lifted herself up, intent on kissing him again.

This time he met her halfway, his hand retreating from her face and travelling instead across her back as their lips brushed together. He did not press or overwhelm her, seemed to understand without need of further explanation from her that it would be best to take things slowly; he kissed her once, paused, took a breath, and kissed her again, and again, and each time their lips met her need for him only grew, and she could feel his smile against her mouth. There was a sweetness to those fleeting kisses, to the warm wash of his breath against her cheek, a gentle understanding, a sort of care that left her impatient for more of him. Once more he made to kiss her, briefly, but Jean pressed forward, let the softness of her body mold against his chest while she nipped at his bottom lip.

Lucien groaned, and Jean laughed, eyes closed against the sheer joy of it all, and in the next breath he surged forward, his hands against her back pressing her hard against him, his tongue flicking against her lips in a desperate plea for more.

Jean sighed, and opened herself to him, wound her arms around his neck and clung to him desperately while his tongue surged into her mouth, and tangled with hers, and fireworks exploded behind her eyelids. How long had it been? Too long, too long, and she would gladly have stood there kissing him for the rest of her life, if she could, so beautiful was the way he touched her, so overpowering was the response he inspired in her, so deep was her craving for him.

They pushed and pulled and pressed against one another; when she drifted back his kisses chased after her, and when she rose towards him he opened his mouth and let her taste him. All the while his hands traveled up and down the expanse of her back over her fine dress, the heat of his fingertips against her spine making her shiver. But he was so tall, and she was tired already of craning her neck to reach him, and she wanted more, wanted all of him, wanted -

Quite suddenly Lucien caught her bum in his hands, and turned them both so that his back was facing the bed. Still Jean kissed him, breathless, hungry, her tongue sliding against his, even as he fisted his hands in her dress and tugged it up to bunch around her hips. Before she could protest or even wonder what he was about Lucien sat himself down on the edge of the bed, the connection of their kiss broken with a wet gasp from each of them, but then he pulled her down with him, and she understood his intent at once. She settled herself upon his lap, their eyes on the same level, now, his hands on the bare skin of her thighs just above her stocking tops, her knees on either side of his hips.

Once more Jean reached for his neck, let her fingers drift beneath his collar while she leaned in close. For a moment she teased him, their noses brushing together, his chin lifted as he searched in vain for her mouth, both of them breathing loud and ragged in the silence of her room. He was already half-hard beneath her, and so she rocked against him experimentally, felt him catch against the place where she yearned for him most, felt them both shudder at the contact. It was in her mind to tease him a bit more, to whisper words of yearning against his skin, but it seemed Lucien had had enough of waiting; he carefully removed her widow's veil and threw it to the side, and then he tangled his hands in her hair, and held her still just long enough for his lips to find hers once more, and then, oh then, she was lost.


	57. Chapter 57

_24 December 1959_

Time had lost all meaning in that place; it did not matter, any more, how late the hour had grown, how long Jean had spent lost in Lucien's embrace, how many minutes were left to them. They had untold minutes, hours, days, to spend wrapped up in one another. There was no end in sight for them, nor was there any need of one; Jean was _free,_ unconstrained by rules or inhibitions or responsibilities, allowed to do and be whatever she wished, and her heart had not known such peace for years, for decades.

At some point they had shifted further up the bed; Lucien sat with his back propped up against the headboard, his knees bent at Jean's back, cradling her in the shelter of his body while still she kissed him, hungrily, messily, delightedly. Such a simple thing, a kiss; how many times had she pressed her lips unthinking to Christopher's stubbled cheek, never knowing that one day she might long for such a beautiful gift? How often in their marriage had a kiss been no more than a prelude to something more, a brief tease that gave way to gasps and moans and shivers of delight? She had never known, before, how deeply she could long for something as sweet as a kiss, had not known until that little gesture had been denied her how much she could ache for it.

Now though, there was no stopping it. In their rapturous abandon Lucien had tugged her dress off over her head, and her slip with it, and now she perched upon his lap in just her underthings, her own hands busy with his shirt buttons while still her tongue danced and tangled with his. Surely it had not been so long, she thought, since Lucien had last kissed a lover himself, but he seemed as hungry for her as she was for him, did not try to hurry things along between them but only ran his fingers through her hair and let her mouth slant over his until both their lips were red and swollen, until she could feel the burn of his beard against her skin. Every now and then she teased him, made to pull back from him, only for his eager mouth to chase after her, pulling her once more down with him, as if he could no more bear to part from her than she could content herself with losing him.

But an urgent need was growing, in the place where Jean ground down against his lap. She could feel his hardness tenting his trousers, could feel it against the hot wet place where she burned for him, and as much as she was enjoying their tender kisses there was more she wanted from him besides. His shirt buttons were all unfastened, now, and so Jean pressed herself hard against him, tugged the fabric away from his skin while he surged forward, passion burning through her like wildfire everywhere they touched. The moment his hands were free from the shirt Lucien reached for her, his palms ghosting over her sides, gentle and yet full of promise, and Jean shivered in his embrace, and nipped at his bottom lip just to hear the way he groaned when she did.

It was not enough, though, only removing his shirt, and so Jean tugged at his vest, and even as she did he reached for the clasp of her bra. They struggled together, neither of them able to complete their task while the other remained unrelenting, breaking their kiss with a gentle laugh from each of them, though Lucien's lips pressed back against hers, once, twice, three times, teasing and joyful, and Jean relented. She let her hands fall away from him, love-drunk on the sweetness of his mouth, and was rewarded for her yielding by the way Lucien peeled her bra suddenly away, his hands reaching at once for her breasts.

A gasp escaped her, as his fingers traced her sensitive skin, and Lucien grinned against her mouth. They were hardly kissing, now, but still his lips just barely touched hers, mouths open, panting breaths passing back and forth between them. They were too close; she closed her eyes against his dizzying proximity and let herself be led by the sensations he evoked in her alone. His left hand clutched at her breast, held on to her as if she were a lifeline, and the fingers of his right hand plucked at her other nipple as a harpist at his strings, drawing a melody of desperate gasps from deep within her chest, her hips rocking against him in time to the rhythm he set with his hands. Still they maintained the almost-contact of their kiss; she threw her head back and Lucien followed her, eager, hungry, his body curving over hers in a complementary arch, the divine symmetry of lovers lost in one another. His knees at her back gave her strength, and his hardness between her thighs gave her hope.

"I want you," she breathed against his lips, reversing their angle at once. She pressed him back against the pillows, laughing when his tongue flicked against her teeth, her hands fisting in his vest while his own continued their delicious symphony against her chest. "I want you."

Such simple words, words she had spoken to him before, but they were no less monumental now than they had been the first time. For so many years Jean had approached sex as a business transaction, and her desires had not come into the bargain. She had slaked the desires of others in exchange for coin, and left her own heart by the wayside. Now, though, it was Lucien she wanted, not just his heavy cock thrusting within her - though she wanted that so badly her entire body seemed to clench with need at the very thought of it - but _him,_ Lucien. She wanted _him,_ his love, his laughter, his hand to hold, his life to share, everything he had ever promised her and every dream that had ever been born of her love of him. She wanted him, and she was tired of denying herself.

"Have me, then," he told her, punctuating his words with another kiss, lifting his hands away from her skin so that she could tug his vest free at last. "Whatever you want, Jean," he added, returning to her now shirtless, their bare chests pressed hard together. He tangled his hands in her hair, gently eased her head back just far enough for him to look into her eyes. "Whatever you want you shall have, my darling," he swore.

"What do you want?" she asked him breathlessly, her hips still rocking idly against him. She rather thought she knew the answer to that; she could, after all, feel his hardness between her legs, and she had read his letters so often she had them memorized. He had spoken to her of love, and devotion, and dreams of the future, and she rather felt she knew his heart as well as she knew her own, now.

"Everything," he growled in a low, dangerous voice, and before Jean could respond he had captured her lips once more in a heated kiss that knocked the breath from her lungs.

With all the smooth strength she had come to expect from his powerful body he flipped them easily, his fierce, dizzying kisses pressing Jean back against the mattress while her thighs rose up to cradle his hips.

Her hands drifted over the scarred plane of his back, his tongue surged between her lips, her heart raced in her chest, but Lucien did not linger overlong in their kiss, did not allow her a moment to orient herself before his hands began a descent all their own. Beneath her slip she'd worn her favorite cream satin underthings, the bra Lucien had already discarded, a heavy, unyielding girdle to maintain the smooth lines of her dress, her plain knickers, her silk stockings. Lucien's hands made quick work of the clasps on her stockings, and then he was tugging almost furiously at the girdle. Jean joined her hands to his, laughing, and together they wrenched it off her, but Lucien had no sooner flung it across the room than his right hand dove beneath her knickers and wrenched a whine born of longing out of Jean.

"I want everything," he panted at her, his beard burning her lips, while his fingertips dove through the wetness at her core and left her reeling. She mewled helplessly at his touch, her hips circling wildly as she sought to guide his hand where she most wanted it to go.

"I want to feel you come apart for me," he growled, and as he did two of his thick fingers drove easily into her slick heat and Jean whimpered, her fingernails digging into his shoulders as she clung to him for dear life, as she desperately tried to match the movement of her hips to the thrusting of his fingers within her.

"I want to hear you," he continued. Of course he could not stop himself from speaking now that the floodgates were open between them; Lucien never seemed to be quiet except in sleep, and the heat and longing of his words only drove her arousal higher, left her needing him more and more with each breath that passed between their open mouths. His nose brushed against hers, his beard burned her skin, and his hands; _oh,_ his hands knew just where to go, his thumb circling, circling, circling furiously around the little nub at her center while his fingers curled hard into her, his heavy arm setting a powerful, relentless place that left her breathless and tense with desire.

"I want to feel you," he added. He knelt between her thighs, freed his left hand to rise up and clutch at her breast. Jean was reeling, her entire body tight with need and clutching at him, drawing him into her harder, and deeper. She took no note of the endless litany of gasps and whines and sobbing pants that left her, but Lucien did, whether she realized it or no, and he matched the fevered thrusts of his hand to her ragged breaths.

"I want to taste you," he said then, and she moaned and clutched at him, feeling herself rising higher and higher, fast approaching her own release. It was beautiful in a breathless, overwhelming way, and Jean felt as if she'd lost all control of herself, delivered her body into his powerful hands and been rewarded with a wet, heady pleasure that spun the coil of her desire tighter and tighter until she feared she might snap beneath the strain of it. Her every muscle was bent on pulling Lucien in to her, as if she sought to melt their bodies down into one single creature, grasping for him, chasing that lightning strike feeling of need as his fingers plunged into her, left her dripping and stretched taut, on the precipice of abandon. Still his mouth hovered over hers, his lips soft and warm, his body hard as marble, the strength of him unyielding as she shuddered and whimpered with need beneath him. At last, at last, it all grew too much to bear, and she thrust her hips hard against him even as he plunged his fingers once more inside her, and she tumbled from the cliff, crying out his name in joyous rapture while stars sparkled beneath her eyelids and the flood of her pleasure drowned her utterly.

* * *

She was, he thought, the most magnificent thing he'd ever seen in his life. Her stockings had slid low down her legs without the clasps to hold them up and her knickers were damp with the flood of her arousal where he'd pulled them to the side, too desperate to touch her to spare a moment to remove them. The sound of his name leaving her lips in her pleasure-soaked voice left him almost dizzy with need, and her sex pulsed around his fingers like a living, breathing thing, the heat and the wetness and the softness of her leaving him almost sobbing with the need to sate himself. She _wanted_ him, had told him so herself, and the reckless, wild trembling of her body had proved the truth of those words. Nothing could be more beautiful, he thought, than this, than her, than them, together at last, without constraint, without limitation, free to drown in one another.

As she slowly calmed beneath him Lucien left his hand right where it was, her inner muscles clenching and fluttering around him while he feathered kisses over her face. The soft wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and her mouth, the rise of her cheek, the sharp line of her jaw, the tip of her nose; he kissed every inch of her he could reach until her hand slipped between them, delicate fingers wrapping around his wrist and drawing his hand from her dripping sex at last.

Lucien bowed his head, let his kisses drift down the elegant column of her throat, and tried to catch his own breath. _Christ,_ this woman was going to be the end of him, he was sure, and he could think of no better way to go.


	58. Chapter 58

_24 December 1959_

With his lips against her neck Lucien breathed life into his love of her, tattooed her skin with the blissful heat of his mouth while she calmed beneath him, loose and soft and perfect in the aftermath of her release. Everything was different, now, bright and new and wonderful in a way it had never been before. Oh, they had been quite wonderful together, before, but their every second together had been rushed and laced with doubt. Now, though, now they knew better. Now Jean knew that his devotion to her was not limited only to what they got up to in her bed together; now she knew that the dream of love they had cultivated between themselves could one day be, and she did not hold herself back from him. The sweet, soul-burning kisses she'd given him had been proof enough of her own devotion; she would not have granted him such a blessing, he knew, if she were not convinced that there was some hope for their future, if she did not love him, as he loved her. Those kisses had been a declaration couched in a caress, and Lucien's heart was singing, joyous and overcome.

At the moment he still wore his trousers, and Jean still wore her knickers, and he knew that would have to change, and soon. He had kept his own trousers in place out of deference to his desire to make her come undone first; he wanted her to know that she mattered more to him than his own release, that he was in her bed for her sake, and no other reason. The trousers helped him to maintain his restraint, but only just; she was glorious, and he was eaten alive with his need for her.

Perhaps she sensed his desperation and wished to ease his discomfort, or perhaps she simply wanted to; whatever the reason she reached for him, while his lips were occupied with her neck, nimble fingers unbuckling his belt easily. At her touch Lucien groaned against her neck, and Jean laughed, a sweet, merry little sound that did his heart good to hear it.

"Eager, are we?" she asked him archly, though her superior tone was marred by the little hitch in her breath when his teeth scraped gently against the tendons of her neck.

"For you? Always," Lucien murmured into her skin.

"You'll grow tired of me someday," she said. She left his unbuckled belt in place around his hips and reached for the button of his trousers, and Lucien held himself steady above her despite the way his muscles trembled with need. Her tone was light, teasing; he did not think she meant those words, not truly. But she had believed them, once, had believed that his affections would wane and he would no longer concern himself with her, and whether she still believed it or no Lucien sought to disabuse her of that notion with all haste.

"I'll die first," he vowed.

He meant those words, truly he did. Jean was clever, and kind, endlessly compassionate, and she made him want, made him hope, made him dream. Jean had made Ballarat his home, when he thought he would never find such grace anywhere ever again. Even if one day his body grew old and tired and his cock no longer jumped to attention at the sight of her bare breasts he was certain he would still want her, by his side at the breakfast table, curled under his arm beneath the bedsheets, her hand in his, her heart as much a piece of him as his own. How could a man ever grow bored of such a woman, he thought, a woman who fascinated his brain as well as his body, a woman who comforted him and challenged him in equal measure? It was Jean he was eager for; it would always be Jean.

"Not for a very long time, I hope," she whispered, and then, oh, then her hand slipped beneath his trousers and into his trunks and Lucien could not help but swear as her delicate fingers wrapped around his cock and every thought left his head. His body shuddered, completely at her mercy, and the fervor of his kisses against her neck stuttered to a halt as his hips surged against her in mindless desperation. Her clever hand knew just what to do, how to tease him, despite the restraints of his trousers still round his hips, and as her thumb brushed over the head of his cock, wet and weeping with want of her, he groaned and closed his eyes against the sweet bliss of it.

If only it were within his power Lucien would have stayed alive forever, and happily, for her. He would have done anything, for her.

"Lucien," she whispered, her hand tightening its grip against him ever so slightly. He could do nothing but whine in response; no words would pass his lips, when she touched him that way, no thought would form his head, nothing but the endless liturgy of his heart chanting _Jean Jean Jean._

"Trousers off," she told him softly, teasingly, and he moved in a moment, obeying her quiet command with hesitation. He rose up onto his knees, and as he did Jean shifted beneath him, tugging off her own knickers while he struggled to remove his trousers and trucks. The sight of her soft, dark curls was so overwhelming he nearly forgot what he was doing, so lost was he in the glorious vision of Jean, soft breasts, soft stomach, soft thighs, her sex pink and swollen and glossy with need. _Jean,_ bare and beautiful beneath him, _Jean,_ offering him all of herself, accepting all of him in turn, with no constraint, no time limit, no rule at all, except the rule of love that bound them together.

* * *

Jean's heart was racing, as Lucien shrugged out of his trousers, his powerful body bare and beautiful and on display for her. He rolled to the side and kicked his clothes away, and Jean followed him, delighted and overjoyed. She had spent so long without him, so long doubting the wants of her own heart, that this moment of trust, and faith rewarded, left her so full of joy that she could not contain it.

With a mischievous smile she straddled him, her knees coming to rest on the mattress on either side of his body, her hands pressed to the mattress by his shoulders, his cock caught between their bellies as she leaned forward and he groaned, soft and needy. Without need of guidance her lips found his collarbone and his hands found the curve of her bum, clutched her tight and encouraged her to roll her hips against him. The hot, hard length of him met the soft, wet place where she ached for him and she gasped against his skin, drowning in sensation. There were not words, she thought, for the intimacy of this, joined and yet not as they were. This trust, this vulnerability they shared with one another without hesitation, without restraint, and she found a sort of peace in this place, with this man, such as she had never known before.

At his encouragement she raised herself up, her tender folds gliding against his silken shaft, ecstasy sparking from the place where they met to send a shiver racing down her spine. The friction they created between them, the shape of him pressing against that place where she needed him most, her own aching heat painting him with her arousal, was dizzy in its intensity, and she repeated the motion again, and again, grinding against him and drawing another helpless moan from his beautiful lips. For a moment she indulged in this simple pleasure, the lightness in her heart, the beautiful agony of her lover's face as he threw his head back against the pillows, closed his eyes and groaned against the bliss she inspired him. _She_ had done this to him, had pinned this titan of a man beneath her slender frame and caused the vein in his neck to tighten, caused his body to tense, caused his cock to twitch against her in eager anticipation, caused him to open himself up to her, wholly and without reservation. It was a heady thought; there had not been many times, in the course of her life, when Jean had felt herself in control of her circumstances, but she felt it now. This gift Lucien had given her, and she would be forever grateful for it.

Once more she rose up, but this time she moved with a sense of purpose, reached between their bodies and caught his cock in her hand, held him place as ever so carefully she sank down upon him. As the head of his shaft plunged between her soaking folds she could not help but gasp; it had been so long, too long, since last she'd held him, and she had almost forgotten how it felt to take him inside her, to mold herself around him and hold him tight, every blessed inch of him. She leaned forward and as she did he raised his head, his lips falling to the corner of her mouth as still she eased down on him, taking him in deeper, and deeper still.

" _Oh_ , my darling," Lucien breathed, shaking beneath her, though she could not say whether it was joy that made him tremble, or the strain of holding himself back for her sake. Her own arms were unsteady as she held herself suspended above him, as she dropped her head to hang low between her shoulders, the bristle of his beard catching against the softness of her cheek.

She could hardly breathe, could hardly think, could only _feel_ as she sank down on him, took him into her completely until they were flush together, panting and desperate and alive. How could she have ever thought to leave him? How could she have ever believed they could carry on without one another, without this pleasure, this connection, this relief? It seemed unthinkable to her now, that she should ever part from him; they were one, bound together by chains no man could break, now.

He was _hers._

She held him there, tight within her, and lowered herself atop him, her breasts pressed hard to the plane of his chest, and his arms rose up at once, holding her close, enveloping her completely. And in that moment, utterly surrounded by him, his heat, his strength, his love, Jean turned her head, and pressed her lips to the taut line of his neck.

" _Mine_ ," she gasped, teeth catching against his tender skin.

Beneath her Lucien's hips bucked up, hard, thrusting against her and tearing a whimper from the back of her throat.

"Yours," he answered breathlessly and her heart sang in her chest, a bird set free from its cage. The need was building, low in her belly, and she could not help but move, then, rocking against him, every nuance of the push and pull between their bodies sending her closer and closer to the very brink of bliss. She shifted atop him, lifted herself up and leaned over him, and he moved with her at once, catching her thighs within the cages of his broad hands and raising his head so that he could wrap his lips around one of her tender nipples. The rough scratch of his beard and the gentle lap of his tongue sent her reeling, and her body responded to the call of her desire without any conscious thought. She rose above him and sank down again, and again, gradually finding a rhythm that suited her, a steady, eager motion that had him pressing against her everywhere she burned for him. With each downward pass of her body he raised his hips to meet her, added his own latent power to her movements, the plunging of his hardness into her a pleasure so exquisite she could not help but moan. Everything about this moment, them together, his lips and his tongue and his hands and his hardness buried within her, her own body shivering and trembling with pleasure everywhere he touched her, was so beautiful, so raw in its honesty that if she could have spared the breath she might well have wept.

" _God,"_ the word left her quite without her realizing it as their dance continued, as her body tensed and tightened around him and his fingertips dug in hard to the soft flesh of her thighs.

" _Yes,_ " was his breathless answer, the word a plea muffled against the curve of her breast where the heat of his mouth had left a darkening bruise. Still she held herself there, rocking against him, rising up and sinking down, again and again, thinking she could happily do this for all the rest of her days, spend every moment wrapped up in him and the pleasure he stirred within her. She wanted to touch him, to wind her fingers through his soft hair and cradle his head against her breast, but her hands remained in place, holding her steady while she worked over him, and he met her, point and counterpoint until it all became too much to bear.

Desperate, eager, chasing her release she ground against him, and it seemed to her in the next moment as if something within him had snapped, as if some otherworldly strength had been released, for his hands left her thighs, trailed fire along the curve of her back until he caught hold of her shoulders. Those hands, those strong, beautiful hands held her down hard against him, and she gave herself over to him, her trembling arms collapsing as her hands sought out his hair and his hips thrust up hard against her. He had known, somehow, what it was she wanted, had proven once again how well he understood her, how well they complimented one another, as she buried her face in the crook of his neck and panted her pleasure, as he took her with a ferocity that shook her to the core. The hard slap of his body crashing into hers, the low, gravelly sound of his voice as he grunted with exertion, her own high-pitched moans echoed loud in that space, and for perhaps the very first time, Jean found she did not care, could not bring herself to worry about the noise they made. This was _right,_ she told herself. This was where they belonged. Together.

"Jean," Lucien's voice carried with a warning note she recognized all too well; he was close to his own release, his movements growing somewhat erratic, and just the thought of it, the knowledge that she had brought him to this point, that they had reached this precipice together, threatened to undo her.

"Harder," she told him breathlessly, and he complied at once, drove into her with such reckless abandon that in a moment she was falling, moaning, clenching him tight within her as the tightly wound coil of her desire sprung free at last and flooded her every sense.

" _Christ,"_ Lucien gasped, thrusting into her release, hard and hot and hungry, prolonging her exquisite agony until he, too, could bear it no longer, and with a final groan he was coming undone, spilling into her with all the force he could muster.

In the aftermath Jean was left trembling, her heart racing, black spots dancing across her vision as she panted against his neck and a few blissful tears escaped her. The bands of grief and doubt and bitter disappointment that had held her captive since the day she first set foot inside the Lock and Key were broken at last, utterly shattered by Lucien's love of her, her love of him. They had shared more than just a quick and eager tumble in this place; from the very beginning of their dalliance it had seemed to Jean that they were most honest with one another when they were naked, bare and without inhibition, and they had now with grasping hands and open hearts pledged themselves to one another with a vow more sacred than any made in any church.

* * *

It was a beautiful thing, lying there with Jean in his arms. She was beautiful, but the love they had made together was more beautiful still. Lucien's heart was full of hope for the future; maybe with his help she could achieve her dream of going to Adelaide sooner. Or maybe, if she did not truly wish to abandon her girls and the pub that had been the center of her life she could make her home with him, could fill the garden with flowers, and dance with him through the studio, and bring light to that place that had so long festered in darkness. It did not matter to him, not really, where they went or what they did, so long as they did it together.

Her soft hair brushed against his chin, and he smiled, and ran his hand gently over her back, thinking sweet thoughts of Jean, and happy she had made him, and how much happiness he wished to give to her in turn. The hour had grown very late, and the world beyond her bedroom was all in darkness. Perhaps the proper thing to do would be to leave, and not spend Christmas Eve sleeping in a brothel; perhaps the proper thing would have been to offer Jean some space, not to crowd her too much. But after what they'd just shared leaving her was the farthest thing from his mind.

Jean, it would seem, was in agreement. As their racing hearts calmed and their panting breaths slowed she pressed a gentle kiss against his chest, and then lifted her head to look at him.

"Will you stay?" she asked him softly.

Such simple words, and yet they nearly moved him to tears, for there was an earnest longing in her eyes, a note of hesitation in her voice that spoke of her uncertainty, her vulnerability in that moment. Jean had spent far too long denying her own desires, and she seemed not to trust them now, but she had found the courage to speak, to be honest about what she wanted. She had found the strength to offer him a gift that she had never extended to anyone else, as far as he was aware. They had slept together in his bed back in August, that beautiful Friday night before his world came tumbling down around his ears, and the comfort and the joy of that experience was as fresh in his mind as if it had only just occurred. Would he stay? Nothing short of her command could make him leave.

"Yes," he whispered, and her answering smile was quite the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. She pressed herself closer into his embrace, buried her face in the crook of his neck, and Lucien held her tight, his heart singing in his chest. It was Christmas Eve, and he would spend the night with his arms full of Jean. Come Christmas morning he would wake with her beside her; there could be no gift more beautiful than that.


	59. Chapter 59

_25 December 1959_

Jean woke slowly, floating on a warm sea of contentment. Her body was loose and soft beneath the heavy weight of Lucien's arm, her heart light and, for once, at peace. She had made her choice; Lucien had offered her hope and a dream for the future and she had reached out and caught hold of that dream with both hands. Whether that dream would ever come to be, and what shape it might take in the end, remained to be seen, but for now, for this moment, Jean was happy. Lucien was with her, and he had not paid for the pleasure, nor would he ever again, if Jean had anything to say about it. Never again would she accept payment for her body; that was a gift that would from now on only be given, freely, with the full desire of her heart, and never purchased. Her heart had chosen Lucien, and she took joy in that choice.

He was warm at her back, his arm draped around her waist, his breath washing slow and steady over the tender skin of her neck. Slowly, very slowly, her eyes fluttered open; it was Christmas morning, and she did have plans to celebrate with her girls, but there was a little time, yet, for her to simply enjoy being with Lucien. There was time yet to hold him, to talk to him, to run her fingers through his hair, to kiss him - for having discovered the beauty of his kiss there was nothing Jean wanted more than to indulge in it again - but as her vision came to in focus she found a most unexpected sight waiting for her.

There on the bed, just in front of her face, was a small box tied with a pretty ribbon. It _was_ Christmas morning, after all, and so there could be no doubt that this little box was a present, intended for her, but how it had come to be there remained a mystery to Jean.

"Lucien?" she whispered softly. She had thought that he was asleep, for he was lying very still and his breathing was deep and even, but as she spoke his name she felt him smile and press a kiss against the back of her neck. He had not been sleeping, then; he must have found some way to slip out of bed and place this little present in front of her before sliding back into place behind her. Perhaps it was the gentle movements of his body that had woken her in the first place; she couldn't say for certain. How he had done this thing was a matter of no consequence; what was important to Jean, in that moment, was the realization that he must have been carrying this little box on his person. When he had gone to Sacred Heart the night before, looking for her, intent on sitting beside her in mass, he must have slipped the box into his jacket pocket first. Had he imagined they might spent the night tangled up in one another's arms? Had he been counting on receiving the invitation she had extended to him? Somehow, she thought not. Somehow, she felt certain that he must have been intent on giving her this gift the night before regardless of what she offered him in turn, and that knowledge comforted her, warmed her heart. His every word and deed spoke of his regard for her, and she felt herself falling more in love with him with each passing second.

"Open it, my darling," he whispered against her skin.

And so she did, reached for that little box with unsteady hands. He was peering over her shoulder, now, watching as she lay naked beside him, carefully untying that fine ribbon, and so Jean did not move, simply remained right where she was, safe in his embrace. Once the ribbon was untied she carefully laid it aside, and then opened the box.

As its contents were revealed to her Jean could not help but gasp. Inside the box there lay a beautiful jade brooch, in the shape of some exotic flower. Small, sparkling stones - _they can't be diamonds,_ she told herself, _can they? -_ had been set in the juncture of the petals, and the brooch itself had been cast from gold. It was a princely gift, incredibly lovely, no doubt purchased dearly, finer than any other piece of jewelry Jean had ever owned.

"Thank you," Jean whispered, feeling tears beginning to gather in the corners of her eyes. It was such a lovely gift, but even more lovely, to her mind, was the fact that he had thought to give her a gift at all, that he had done this thing for her sake. That he had been thinking warm thoughts of her, and of Christmas, and procured a gift, just for her.

"It's beautiful," she told him. But of course, he was beautiful, too, and his love of her was a beautiful thing, and she delighted in it. The brooch was lovely, and she knew that she would wear it at the first possible opportunity, and treasure it always, but it was not the sort of thing that one might purchase at a shop in Ballarat. It was too beautiful, and too unique; no lady in Ballarat would have anything half so fine, except maybe Susan Tyneman, and she would prefer a much more traditional piece. Where then, she wondered, had he come by this thing?

Jean rather felt she might know the answer.

"Was it hers?" she asked him softly.

She was grateful that she was not looking at him, grateful that she could not see his face as she asked her question. She did not know what she wanted the answer to be, or how she might feel if he told her _yes_. If it had belonged to _her,_ the woman Lucien had loved and lost, if it was one of the few pieces of her that still remained to him, and he had chosen to give it to Jean, that would be, Jean thought, a monumental gift. It would be, she thought, a gesture of respect, his way of showing her just how much she meant to him, how much he intended to share with her, how deeply invested he was in their future. It would be like giving her a piece of his own heart. And yet, she thought she might lament, in some way, to know that this beautiful thing had once belonged to someone else, that his wife might have once worn it proudly, that were it not for her death she would wear it still, and Jean would never have had the chance to hold Lucien at all.

"No," he said, and she felt the smallest bit of relief. "No, I um...I bought it before the Japanese invaded." She had been right, then; he had not purchased it in this town, or indeed on this continent. It was a rare gift, indeed; no other woman in Ballarat could boast a gift so fine. "And I thought it might make a good present one day." His voice was thick with emotion, and Jean understood it well. He _had_ purchased this thing for his wife, down payment on better days, a piece of hope stored away, to be treasured until the time was right. His wife had never returned to him, and this gift had never been delivered into her hands, and Lucien had held it, for nearly two decades now, waiting for the time to be right. Waiting for the woman he loved, the woman who would deserve such a precious gift. He had been waiting, and he had chosen now, this moment, to deliver it into _her_ hands. "And indeed it has," he whispered, kissing her neck again.

Indeed, it had made for the best of presents, for Jean understood precisely what it meant, precisely what Lucien had given her. He was not waiting, any longer, holding out hope for a better day, a different day. It was Jean he had chosen, Jean he wanted, Jean he loved, and he had placed that love in this little box, and delivered it to her. Trying very hard not to cry, then, Jean carefully closed the box and laid it on the bed beside her, and then she turned in his arms, and kissed him soundly.

* * *

It was later, much later, after Lucien and Jean had lost themselves in one another once again, after Jean had slipped out of bed, naked as the day she was born, and returned to shyly offer him a gift of her own, a small box containing a pair of silver cuff-links, inset with a golden _B. Yours were looking a bit scuffed,_ she'd told him, smiling, and Lucien had been so delighted he could not help but kiss her, deeply and with abandon. She, too, had thought of him this Christmas, and purchased for him a fine gift that spoke to how well she knew him, how she cared for him, and his heart rejoiced in it. That gift told him that she must have been thinking, even before he turned up at the church, that she would find her way back to him, and he was more grateful for that than words could say.

After all that, however, Lucien had found himself in rather urgent need of the loo, and so he had slipped from Jean's bed and tugged on his trousers before making his way out of the room. Her suite boasted its own private bathroom - for which he was also very thankful - and it was there he went. Once he had attended to his business he was determined to fall back into bed with Jean and stay there for the rest of the day, but as he crossed the parlor there came a knock upon the door.

For a moment Lucien simply stared at it, bewildered. Jean was still naked and soft in bed, and he was certain she had not heard the knock. Ought he to answer it? What might happen, should the girls find him there?

 _If any of them were awake last night, they'll know I'm here already,_ he thought wryly. Neither he nor Jean had been particularly discreet, the night before. Or indeed that morning. It would take Jean some time to get dressed, and surely she was comfortable right where she was, and whoever had come calling it could only be one of her girls; surely, he thought, it would be all right for him to answer the door.

And so he did. Despite the fact that he was barefoot and bare-chested and his hair was quite unkempt he stood tall and proud, and opened the door just far enough to see who stood on the other side.

It was not one of the girls; it was _all of them._ In their dressing gowns and their satin pajamas, their hair as rumpled as his own, twelve young ladies crowded the corridor, each of them carrying something; there were trays heaped with plates and teacups, and platters of toast and bowls of scrambled eggs, and two teapots, that he saw, and as he stared at that flock of pretty birds, utterly confused by their appearance, they began to breeze past him, laughing.

"Merry Christmas, Doctor Blake," several of them murmured, their eyes wicked and full of mischief.

"Merry Christmas," Lucien managed to stammer in response, stepping back to allow them entry to the parlor and watching them in wild-eyed befuddlement.

 _What on earth?_ He thought as he watched them lay their burdens down on the low table in the center of the room, laughing and chatting together as they began to prepare a veritable feast for Christmas breakfast. Jean had told him that she intended to cook for the girls, as she always did on Christmas Day, but it seemed the girls had done her one better, and cooked for _her_ instead.

"Merry Christmas, Doctor Blake," Maureen said, coming to a stop beside him while the other girls flitted about the parlor, arranging the chairs into a more conversational grouping.

"Merry Christmas, Maureen," he answered, somewhat lamely.

"Jean's always so good to us," she said, by way of explanation. "We wanted to do something nice for her. We all just want her to be happy."

There was a directness to the way that Maureen looked at him then that made those words sound more like a threat than anything else.

"So do I," he told her earnestly.

"Good, then," Maureen said. "Best go and fetch her, I'm starving."


	60. Chapter 60

_25 December 1959_

When Lucien left her, pressed his lips against the rise of her bare shoulder and promised to be back in just a moment, Jean just smiled and let him go, sinking back against her pillows exhausted and yet full of joy. They'd gotten very little sleep, the night before; it had been quite late when they first returned to the Lock and Key, and it had been quite some time before they drifted off to sleep, and then they'd woken with the sun a bare few hours later, and fallen into one another again. It was worth losing a little sleep, Jean thought, to have him there with her.

As she lay, warm and comfortable and at peace beneath the duvet, her eyes wandered to the little table beside her bed. The hourglass and its damnable black sand did not sit there now, nor would it ever again, if Jean had anything to say about it. Gone were the days of counting the seconds, kicking Lucien out of bed when all she wanted was to hold him just a little while longer. He had with kindness and gentle hands purchased the only thing in the Lock and Key that could not be bought with money; her heart was his, now, irreversibly. The tender way he held her, the way he kissed her, the quiet words he whispered in her ear while they lay tangled up together told her that he understood very well the gift that he had been given, and that he would not squander it.

There were other gifts, sitting on that little table. There was the small box containing the beautiful brooch he had given her, that promise of better days made real, now. And there was the small box that held the cufflinks she had given him; _B_ for Blake, of course, but also, to Jean's mind, _B_ for Beazley, evidence of their connection to one another he could wear out in the world without anyone the wiser, a reminder for him, and for her, of the promises they had made with words and hands and tender devotion. He was _hers_ , as much as she was his.

It was not lost on Jean that they had both chosen to give one another jewelry. It was not rings and vows they exchanged, but somehow it felt almost as monumental, to Jean. When she invited him back to her home, when she led him up the stairs, when she took him to bed without need of payment, she had stepped beyond her rules at last, and chosen, for his sake, to allow herself to love, and everything that came with it. She could dream, now, of a home with him in it, a garden where he would sit beside her, a future they made together, not on her terms or on his but on _theirs._ She was trusting him with everything she had, choosing to bind her life to his. The word _marriage_ had not been spoken - and if he was clever it would not be spoken at all until the pub was sold - but their arrangement seemed to have the same finality nonetheless. He had pursued her relentlessly, had _chosen_ her, when he could have had someone else, anyone else, more cheaply and more easily than her. And she had chosen _him,_ when the call of her independence and her fear of disappointment had for so long stopped her from choosing anyone at all. Everything was about to change.

All unthinking the fingers of Jean's right hand sought out her left, running circles round and round the gold band she still wore there. When she wed Christopher she had been certain there would never be anyone else for her, and when he died she had sworn to it. Though she'd entertained more men than she would like to consider over the intervening years she never gave to them what she had given to her husband; her trust, her hope, her faithfulness, her heart, she had reserved for herself. Now, though, now she had lavished those gifts upon another at last.

 _I wonder what Christopher would make of him,_ she thought. Christmas always made her think of him, of the few short years in which their family had been whole, and celebrating the holiday together. It made her think of Christopher's hands, gentle on Christmas morning, and her boys, small and excited over the meagerest of parcels, the twinkling lights of the tree, the joy and the rightness of sharing that day with her family. She did her best to make Christmas pleasant for her girls - and would in fact need to leave her bed soon, to cook their breakfast as was her tradition - but the Christmas season had always been full of lament for her, without Christopher and the boys. Now, though, now she would share it with Lucien, and joy had returned to her at last.

As she lay there lost in thoughts of love and Christmas and lazy, hazy dreams for the future, a strange sound resolved itself; voices, in her parlor. She was not afraid, exactly; Lucien was out there, somewhere, and he would not have let anyone save one of her girls into her own private suite without causing far more commotion than this. But she was concerned, for she did not have the first idea why any of her girls would come to her now, so early on Christmas Day, and she did not relish the thought of lying naked and vulnerable in her bed while Lucien confronted them himself. As the seconds passed the voices did not fade away, but seemed only to grow louder, and Jean had very nearly resolved herself to rise from her bed and go see what was afoot when her bedroom door cracked open, and Lucien slipped through it.

He really was the loveliest man, she thought. There was no one more handsome, more brave, more kind than her Lucien, and what a picture he made, wearing only his trousers and a somewhat foolish grin.

"The girls have a surprise for you, my darling," he said, coming to sit beside her on the edge of the bed. Jean reached for his hand idly, hardly even realizing she'd done it, and he twined their fingers together at once, smiling down at her softly.

"What, all of them?" she asked faintly.

"Indeed," Lucien laughed, and leaned forward to brush a gentle kiss against her forehead. "Christmas breakfast has come to you this year, not the other way round. Come on, let's get dressed, and then we can go and eat."

"They cooked?" Jean asked incredulously. Lucien was already stepping away, shuffling around in search of the vest and shirt she'd peeled off him the night before.

"They did," he said, grinning. "There's eggs and toast and tea and all sorts. They brought it all up here so we can eat together in the parlor."

"Right, then," Jean said, trying very hard not to cry. It was overwhelming, really, to receive so many blessings at once. The reminder of how her girls cared for her, just as much as she did for them, the thought of all of them sitting together cozy in her parlor, like a proper family, the thought of Lucien in their midst, welcome and at home with them...it was too beautiful, truly, and she could hardly find the words to express the joy that filled her heart.

* * *

It was a tight fit, and several of the girls ended up sitting on the floor around the low table in the center of the room, but somehow they managed it. Elizabeth and Lorraine had dished out the food and passed out the plates while Maureen and Harriet poured the tea and saw to it that everyone had a cup. With plates balanced on their knees and wide grins everyone began to tuck in; Lucien did so with gusto, for in truth he had worked up quite an appetite, and happiness always made him hungry.

He was sitting next to Jean on the low sofa, Maureen tucked in on the other side of her. There was barely enough room for all three of them to squeeze in but they managed it; Maureen and Jean did not take up so very much space between them. Every face was smiling, and though several of the girls eyed him curiously there had so far been not one single mischievous remark about his presence, for which Lucien was very grateful. If they had commented on it he was determined to meet their teasing with gracious humility, but he worried for Jean's sake. This new accord between them was so very fragile, and he could not bear to see anyone give her cause to doubt herself once more. Having only so recently wooed her he was loath to begin the process again; he could not bear it if she turned away from him once more, not after everything they'd shared over the last twelve hours.

"All right?" Lucien asked her softly, around a mouthful of eggs. The girls were chattering away, telling stories of comrades long lost to the recesses of time, of old family Christmases, of plans for the new year, but Jean had been rather quiet, and he needed to hear from her that she was well.

At his question she turned and looked at him, wearing a sweet, tremulous smile that made him long to kiss her, though he restrained himself for the sake of her sensibilities.

"Never better," she told him softly, and her tone was so very earnest that he knew then she was being sincere. Gingerly holding his plate in one hand Lucien reached out with the other, and gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and she returned the gesture with her eyes warm and full of love.

"Doctor Blake," one of the girls said then, and his eyes darted away from Jean's face, guilty at having been caught out mooning over her. To occupy himself he began once more to eat, watching Jean's charges warily. The girl who had spoken was blonde and pretty - well, they were all pretty - and she was smiling at him broadly. "Are you going to be our new daddy then?" She delivered her question with a teasing grin, and Lucien nearly choked on his eggs.

The girls all laughed, a tinkling chorus of merry little bells, and Jean laughed along with them, much to his relief. He knew what the girl was trying to say; Jean was as good as a mother to all of them, and while the blonde may have only been trying to make him blush her question was actually one he had asked himself; how permanent was this thing between himself and Jean to be? How much would she allow him to share her life? Would these girls welcome him with open arms, now that Jean loved him, now that she had allowed them all to see that love for themselves? Lucien was quite certain Jean would never have entertained a customer on Christmas Eve, and even more certain she would not have allowed a customer to share in their holiday celebrations. His very presence spoke to the depth of her regard for him, but still, some questions lingered.

"Your new step-father, perhaps," Jean said cheekily. "If you'll have us?"

This last she directed to Lucien himself, a flicker of doubt in her glorious eyes. He knew that to have Jean he would have to accept all of her, her checkered past, her tarnished reputation, her doubts and her fears, and her girls, all her little birds, who were as dear to her as her own children. He could not have one small piece of her; it must be all, or nothing. Knowing what he did about Jean, the choices she had made, the gentleness of her spirit, the strength of her heart, left Lucien with only one possible answer.

"Always," he said, "if you'll have me."

"Always," Jean answered, and then she leaned over and kissed his cheek to seal that vow, more holy than any made in any church, while the girls cheered and laughed and their breakfast grew cold on their plates.


	61. Chapter 61

_23 January 1960_

Lucien's hand was resting gently on Jean's thigh beneath the table.

Such a small thing, the touch of a hand, and yet Jean could not help but smile behind the rim of her teacup to feel him touch her so gently, so easily, to feel the way her heart warmed at the very thought of him. it was a Saturday night, and when the sun rose it would be her birthday, and Lucien would join her for a private celebration after Sunday mass, and Maureen had threatened to bake a cake, and _oh,_ how everything had changed over this last year. Her smiles were more frequent, now, her hopes for the future no longer fragile wisps of smoke but the solid foundation of a life, built by Jean and Lucien together, and not Jean alone.

Most every day since Christmas he had found time for her; some nights he came round early, and joined Jean and the girls for supper. Some nights he didn't come until late, but he would sit next to Jean, and drink his whiskey, and they would talk quietly together while they kept watch over their girls. Some days he sent her flowers, and her heart rejoiced in it. One Saturday he had come round with a pile of books, and he and Jean had spent the afternoon lazing around her suite together, he lost in some research, she knitting and listening to the wireless, the pair of them content simply to be together. One Saturday she had gone to him, and he had been so terribly delighted that they spent the entire day in his bed, and at the end of it he had driven her to the Lock and Key himself, and stayed there right through Monday morning. One Saturday he had packed a picnic, and they had spent the most beautiful day together, far from the prying eyes of Ballarat.

It was plain to Jean what he was doing; he was wooing her gently, determinedly, the way he had done from the very beginning. Lucien had kept no secrets where his heart was concerned; he had told her that he loved her, that he dreamed of a life with her, and he had with every word and deed proved the truth of his devotion. And Jean welcomed those gestures from him, truly she did, for every moment spent in his company reminded her of what it was to dream, reminded her that it was not too late, that she was not too far gone for love, that not every venture must of necessity end in disappointment. He had reminded her what it was, to love again.

"Would you really want to leave Ballarat?" Lucien asked her softly as they sat together in Jean's usual corner booth, removed from the bustle of the pub and yet observing it all so closely. Lucien's face was half-hidden behind the day's copy of The Courier, and Jean's hands were busy with her knitting and her tea, but under the table he touched her, gently, and she soaked in the warmth of that touch.

"I don't know," she confessed, watching as a young man in a fine suit flirted with Maureen. "Ballarat is my home, Lucien. I was born here, I raised my children here. My parents are buried at Sacred Heart."

 _And I never go to see them there,_ she added in her mind, _but Christopher's stone is there, too, and I don't like the thought of leaving him behind._

"And it's your home, too. You have your father's beautiful house, and all your patients, and you enjoy your work with Matthew. I'm not sure it would be right, to walk away from all that."

This was a conversation they'd been having on and off in a casual sort of way since Christmas; they both knew that the day when Jean would be free to leave the Lock and Key was still some time off, as despite his attempts to speed up the process she firmly refused to accept any further funds from Lucien. He seemed to understand her reasons for that, her need to do this one thing on her own, to maintain this bit of independence for herself, even if she did intend to one day join her life to his. If he meant to marry her - and she was quite certain that he did - Jean meant to enter that marriage with funds of her own, and not rely on her husband's good graces for every penny she might need. An unusual prospect for a lady of Jean's generation, perhaps, but it was a point on which she would not be moved, and he seemed to admire her for it, and not hold it against her.

"You told me you worried it would make things difficult for us, if people saw us together," Lucien pointed out.

He was not wrong on that score; Jean had been worried - was still worried - about the damage she might do to Lucien's reputation. But perhaps, she thought, if she sold the pub, and set herself up in a little cottage for some time, perhaps if word got around that she had turned aside from her business, if Lucien had the chance to court her properly, openly, if she was able to make confession and if the priest would consent to marry them in the church, perhaps, with time, the whispers would fade. Oh, there would be excitement in the beginning, she was certain, but the gossips moved on quickly, always on the hunt for the latest piece of information. In time she and Lucien might be no more interesting a match than Patrick and Susan Tyneman had been. Perhaps.

"I still think it might," she said truthfully. "But what they say doesn't matter, does it? We know the truth."

"Indeed we do," Lucien said, his wide grin carefully concealed behind the newspaper.

"Besides, young Christopher has to go where the army sends him. I'd hate for us to move all the way to Adelaide just to find out he was being transferred somewhere else. It would be nice, I think, if we settled right here at home, and your house has more than enough room for visitors."

"It does," Lucien agreed. "Your boys could both come to stay, if they wanted. And perhaps one day my Li might come, as well. It would be nice to have some company. The house is too big to sit empty."

"Did you ever think of taking on boarders?"

Jean asked her question idly, lost in the darting rhythm of her knitting needles. It was very nice, she decided, to simply sit and _talk_ with Lucien, to hear his gentle voice, to know that she was safe with him, to know that all he wanted was _her_ , that unlike so many men who had made her acquaintance over the years it was her heart he longed for, and not only an hour's pleasure.

"I did want Nurse O'Brien to stay," Lucien confessed, "but she couldn't so long as I was the only person in the house. It's something to consider, though. I could rent out the rooms upstairs. But I would need some help looking after all of them."

This last he added with a cheeky glance in her direction, and Jean smiled herself at the thought. It might be quite nice, she thought, to rent out a few of the rooms to some young people, to have someone to look after, some way to fill her days when the pub no longer consumed her every waking moment. It might be quite nice, she thought, to build their own sort of family.

"Well," she said, "it's something to consider, isn't it?"

"Perhaps we could get a dog, as well?" Lucien asked, somewhat hopefully, and Jean could not help but laugh at his boyish eagerness. What a sweet, hopeful soul he could be; oh, Jean knew about the darkness that lingered in his past, knew the grief that sometimes kept him up at night, still, knew the damage his recklessness could cause, but he was, at his core, the best of men. All around them the evening's activity bustled on, and though Jean kept her eyes on her girls and their customers her heart was not in it, for she was in truth too wrapped up in Lucien, and too lost in how much she loved him.

"I intend to do something about your poor neglected garden, Doctor Blake," she told him primly. "And I won't have some mutt undoing all my good work." His face fell, slightly, and so she reached under the table and covered his hand with her own. "So you'll have to see that he's very well trained."

Lucien's smile returned at once.

"And a cat, perhaps, for the lady of the house?" he suggested.

That was a thought Jean liked very much; the desolate, empty sunroom could with a bit of effort be turned into an oasis of beautiful flowers and comfortable chairs, and the idea of passing an afternoon there, sipping her tea, reading a book, with a little cat curled up on her lap, was a charming one. _The lady of the house, indeed,_ Jean thought; she was lady of _this_ house, in command of everything that happened beneath this roof, but it would be different, being Mrs. Blake. Her responsibilities would change, and in some ways the burden of them would lessen. It would be, she thought, the most beautiful sort of retirement, and she longed for it, with everything she had.

And so they passed the remainder of their time together, chatting quietly to one another. Lucien could not stay the whole night through; Matthew Lawson would be coming round to his for a nightcap, and besides, Jean had church in the morning. But he would come back, after, and they would celebrate her birthday together, and Jean was so looking forward to his return that she did not lament the thought of his departure.

"It's time, I'm afraid," Lucien said at last, glancing at his watch. Using his newspaper for a shield he planted a gentle kiss against her cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow, my darling."

"Yes, you will," Jean answered, grinning.

Lucien folded his newspaper, swallowed down the last of his whiskey, and plopped his hat on his head at a jaunty angle before setting off into the night. He waved to the girls as he went and received several cheeky grins in return; they universally adored him, for which Jean was very grateful. Altogether her life had grown so very pleasant that she could hardly contain her smiles, could hardly restrain the beatific glowing of her heart, so recently restored to happiness.

Saturday nights were quite busy, and so she was rather glad that Lucien had chosen to come to her earlier, rather than later. Most of the customers were well known to Jean and so were not cause for alarm, but a few of them were strangers, and it was those men Jean watched most carefully. Young Paul was manning the door this evening, a strapping lad who used his pay from the Lock and Key to support a budding career as a professional boxer. He stood leaned against the wall beside the door, and his threatening scowl was more than enough to keep the gentlemen in line - though of course Jean's entire business had been predicated on pursuing a more refined sort of customer, and so the gentlemen who visited this pub were hardly likely to brawl in the first place. Still, though, a bit of extra muscle on the door was a comfort.

As the night wore on nearly every girl had made her way upstairs, engaged with some man or other; Maureen had had one already, and washed her face and come back down to take up her spot behind the bar. Though Jean generally preferred to keep her position in the corner, she began to consider simply going to the bar and chatting to Maureen; no one else could have her until one of the other young ladies came to relieve her, and the gentlemen currently gathered in the dining room would simply have to wait their turn. They were well aware of the rules, of course, and entertained themselves in idle talk, or card games, or simply sat alone with their eyes trained on the stairs, waiting. No trouble seemed to be in the offing, and so Jean couldn't see any harm in it, her going to talk to Maureen. As she and Lucien solidified their plans for the future Maureen would need to be brought into Jean's confidence on the matter, as it was Maureen Jean intended to sell the pub to. She needed to know what lay ahead.

But Jean had no sooner tucked her knitting back into its bag than the little bell above the door tinkled merrily, announcing the arrival of a new visitor. Reflexively Jean looked up, only vaguely interested in seeing who it was, but the moment her eyes landed on the newcomer's face her heart began to race and her hands began to tremble. There was no time to run; he had seen her, and he smiled, a terrible, soulless smile, and began to cross the room to her booth at once. Like a rabbit caught in the gaze of some terrible predator Jean remained locked in place, her mind whirring as she tried to devise some means of saving herself from this impending calamity. Behind the bar Maureen slowly abandoned the glasses she had been washing, and drifted with every appearance of calm detachment towards the telephone.

"Good evening, Mrs. Beazley," the man said as he drew level with her booth.

"Good evening, Major Alderton," Jean answered.


	62. Chapter 62

_23 January 1960_

"I must apologize for my long absence," the Major said, his tone light and breezy, as if they were old friends, as if he had not ever threatened Jean's son and the stability of her business, as if his very presence did not give proof of that threat.

It was very important, Jean knew, that she show no signs of weakness. The slightest hint of fear or disgust from her might well set him off, and as he stood with one hand casually resting on his hip his jacket turned back just enough to show her that he carried a pistol holstered by his side. The man was unpredictable, and the presence of a gun in the dining room was foreboding; Jean would not dare confront him, not here, not with a room full of unarmed customers and Maureen just behind the bar. It was vital, she knew, that she give no sign of her distress, that she make him feel comfortable, and at ease, and keep his pistol right where it was. Jean had rather a lot of experience in placating despicable men, and so her voice was steady when she answered him.

"It's the lot of a soldier, isn't it?" she asked lightly. "You must do as you're told. I can understand that."

"Yes, I imagine you can," the Major said, leering at her in a way that made her stomach heave with disgust, though she forced herself to smile up at him.

"Tell me, Mrs. Beazley," he continued, "have you had a chance to consider my offer?"

 _Carefully now,_ Jean told herself. Arguing with him would do no good, and she did not want him to disappear again, only to come back angrier or more dangerous than ever before. Maureen was behind the counter, and Maureen knew what to do, and Jean would just have to trust in her protege, and trust in Lucien, trust that the plans they had laid between them would be sufficient to avoid disaster.

"I have," she said lightly. "Six hundred pounds, wasn't that what we agreed?"

"Are we agreed, then?" he asked, his gaze suddenly sharp, and Jean could have kicked herself for not choosing her words more carefully. She'd made it sound as if she'd already made up her mind, as if she had already decided to accept him, and it would be very difficult to walk that back now.

"That depends," she said, trying to sound coy; she'd charmed her fair share of gentlemen over the years, and honed certain skills in that department. She only prayed she wasn't too old to pull off the coquettish act, only prayed he would find her amusing, and not tiresome. "Do you have the money?"

To her great relief, he grinned.

"Six hundred pounds," he said, tapping the pocket of his jacket. "All in order, and ready to be delivered into your lovely hands. Do we have a deal, Mrs. Beazley?"

* * *

 _Just breathe,_ Maureen told herself as she slowly approached the telephone, watching Mrs. Beazley and the Major out of the corner of her eye. It would not do to draw attention to herself, to make her interest in them too plain; the entire operation would hinge, she knew, on her ability to stay calm and cool under pressure. Over the months since the Major had first put in an appearance Maureen and Mrs. Beazley had discussed their plan of attack more than once, and she knew well the part that she must play. Her course of action had already been decided; all she need do now was follow through.

With a trembling hand she reached for the telephone, and dialed off the Doctor's number by heart. She'd memorized it long ago, just in case, and she was thankful for that now.

 _The Doctor will know what to do,_ she told herself. _The Doctor will fix this._

But as she held the receiver up to her ear the strangest thing happened; it did not ring through to his home, as it should, but only made a strange noise, and promptly disconnected.

 _Just breathe,_ Maureen told herself again, as her heart began to race. Why hadn't it worked? She had the number right, she was sure of it. The phone should have rung through to him at once. Why hadn't it?

 _One more time,_ she thought. Carefully she dialed the number, exactly as she learned it. Holding her breath she waited, praying, hoping -

The line disconnected again.

 _Oh, bloody hell,_ she thought. In that moment she was more terrified than she had ever been in her entire life.

* * *

"Thank you for the whiskey, Lucien," Matthew said, raising his nearly empty glass as if in toast. "I can always count on you to have the best drinks on hand."

Lucien laughed, sprawled out in his armchair, half-drunk and content.

"I'm happy to be of service," he said winsomely.

It had been, he thought, a terribly fine evening. Dinner and tea with Jean had been lovely, and her gentle voice had been lovelier still, and Matthew made fine company to wile away the last remaining hours before bed, and come the morning Lucien would trade his bed for Jean's, and celebrate her birthday in high style. There was a bottle of champagne and a bucket of strawberries chilling in his refrigerator at that very moment, and a small box containing a beautiful pair of diamond earrings wrapped up and waiting for her to open it. Everything was exactly as it should have been, and Lucien wanted for nothing, in that moment.

"You've been in fine spirits lately," Matthew remarked, and though he tried to make the comment sound casual Lucien had been working with him too long to be fooled by his air of disinterest. Matthew was a copper, down to his bones, and Lucien recognized the interrogation for what it was. He had, however, drunk just enough whiskey to find Matthew's questioning amusing, rather than intrusive.

"Have I indeed?" he asked jovially.

Matthew frowned.

"I don't know what's gotten into you, Blake," he grumbled.

 _It's more what I've gotten myself into,_ Lucien thought, grinning. Why shouldn't he tell Matthew the truth? Why shouldn't he tell his dearest friend that he was in love, and that the object of his affections returned that love with equal ardor? Why shouldn't he bring Matthew into his confidence as regarded his plans for the future? After all, he and Jean weren't doing anything wrong; he was not a customer paying for the services of a prostitute, any more. He was simply a man, in love with a woman, and surely it would be all right to share his joy with his best mate.

As he opened his mouth to speak, to confess to this wondrous news, there came the worrisome, altogether unexpected sound of a footfall in the corridor, and before he had a chance to rise to his feet a terrible omen of doom appeared on the other side of the parlor.

"Evening, gentlemen," Sergeant Hannam said in a dreadful, soulless sort of voice. He stood tall and proud in his army uniform, and his gun was trained on Lucien. "Hands where I can see them, please."

* * *

Though Maureen had failed to reach the Doctor, though the Major was leaning ever closer to Mrs. Beazley and her terror was growing by the second, she remained right where she was. She had, with Mrs. Beazley's help, developed several contingency plans to manage the Major's appearance, and now that she knew the Doctor was out of the picture she reached for the phone once more, and dialed a different number. _Please pick up,_ she prayed, as - mercifully - the phone began to ring. _Please pick up, please pick up, please -_

"Ballarat police station," a gruff voice said on the other end of the line.

"Oh, Danny, thank God," Maureen breathed, relief washing over her in waves so strong she swayed on the spot.

"Mo?" Danny asked, apparently shocked to find her ringing the police station so late in the evening. The ladies of the Lock and Key did not, as a rule, involve the police in their affairs. He had to have known that trouble was afoot, and Maureen confirmed it for him in a moment.

"Listen, Danny, we've got a problem," she said, keeping her voice very low so as not to carry to the Major's ears where he stood across the room. "The Major's come back."

"Oh, _Christ,"_ Danny groaned. As Jean's nephew and a sometime bouncer for the pub Danny had of necessity been brought into their confidence on the matter of Major Alderton and the threat that he presented, and he knew exactly how big a problem the Major's reappearance was.

"I tried to ring the Doc but the line's been disconnected."

"Right," Danny said, suddenly all business, and if Maureen hadn't been so bloody terrified she might have teased him for pretending to sound like a grown up. As it was, however, she remained silent and hung on his every word.

"The boss was supposed to go round to see the Doc tonight. Might be he's still there. I'll go there first, and see if they're all right, and then all three of us will come to the pub, ok?"

"Danny, can't you come now? It'll take too long-"

"I can't sign out a weapon without the boss, Mo," Danny told her grimly. "And we can bet this Alderton bloke is armed. It's not even Auntie Jean he wants, it's the Doc. I'll just be about twenty minutes, all right? No time at all. Keep him calm until we can get there."

"Danny-"

"Cavalry's coming, Mo. Just stay calm."

And then he hung up the phone, and if she hadn't been trying so hard to avoid drawing attention to herself Maureen would have stomped her foot and sworn in frustration. All she could do for the moment, however, was watch, and wait, in silence.

* * *

"Since you're agreeable to the payment, Mrs. Beazley, and business hours are nearly through, why don't we take care of this tonight?"

All along she'd been afraid that he might ask that question, and now he'd gone and done it. Surely Maureen had reached Lucien by now, but it would take at least a few minutes for him to reach the pub, and so much could happen, in just a few minutes. Could she keep him talking long enough? What if he grew tired of her and pulled that gun? Would Paul be able to wrestle it away from him before he hurt anyone? The lad had been hired to intimidate businessmen, not go toe-to-toe with armed soldiers well trained in the art of combat. What good were a boxer's skills against a bullet? Jean couldn't bear the thought of putting the lad in harm's way like that, not if she could help it.

"There are rules, Major Alderton," she said primly. "Any customer who wishes to avail himself of my services must first make an appointment. Particularly if he's looking to be entertained for an entire night, as you are."

"I think you'll find, Mrs. Beazley," he answered without a trace of a smile, "that I am not the sort of man to whom such rules apply."

He shifted his hand on his hip, drawing her attention once more to the gun he carried. She could not help but stare at it, aghast, and when her eyes flicked back up to his face she saw that he had caught her looking, and understood it for what it was; a terrible, heartless smile stretched at his too-thin lips.

"For six hundred pounds, I think you could see me right now. Or will I have to be more...convincing?"

"Perhaps an exception could be made, in this case," she allowed, trying to keep her voice even. No further convincing was needed; the gun had done the trick. "Considering your handsome offer and your...upstanding moral character."

His eyes flashed at her, dark and full of hate for a moment; he knew she'd rather curse him than praise him. Perhaps that was another misstep; _you shouldn't antagonize him,_ she told herself glumly.

"Let's get to it then, shall we?" he asked, somewhat impatiently, holding out his hand.

Every nerve in her body screamed out against it. She loathed this man, this man who had threatened her family, who sought to use her body for his own gain, who thought money might be enough to sway her, who had only come to her door in the hopes of hurting Lucien. She _loathed_ him, but she could see no way to reject him without bringing bloodshed to her own door. The plan was already in place; now that Maureen had rung Lucien the wheels were turning, and help was on its way to her, she knew. If she took the Major upstairs Maureen would clear the dining room, and she would bring Paul upstairs with her, and they would, with Lucien's help, subdue the Major and rescue Jean from his clutches.

 _You just need to buy yourself a few minutes upstairs,_ she told herself, _and then Lucien will come. Lucien will know what to do._

"Yes," Jean answered, forcing herself to reach out and accept the hand he offered her. "Let's."

And with that she rose from her booth, and led the Major toward the stairs, her heart shrieking in terrified agony with every breath she took.


	63. Chapter 63

_23 January 1960_

The moment they stepped through the door into Jean's suite the odious Major Alderton reached for her, his hands intent on her hip, but Jean danced away from him, forcing herself to smile and praying that he could not discern the shudder of disgust that lanced through her at the very idea of his hands on her body. She could imagine nothing so intolerable, for though she had spent hours with strangers, with men she could not love and never hoped to, she had always been allowed the privilege of saying _no_ whenever she wished, and so had never actually gone to bed with anyone she despised, and she had no intention of doing so now. This terrible man had once been a dear friend of Lucien's, but now he was the sort of man who could threaten innocents, who could condone murder and theft in an effort to conceal his own failures, who could take her at gunpoint if need be, and she saw nothing friendly or good in him, nothing at all.

The plan was simply to keep him occupied, far away from the crowd downstairs, just long enough for Maureen and Paul to clear the dining room, just long enough for Lucien to reach her. It had been perhaps five minutes since Maureen had rung him, and as Jean reckoned it would be another ten at the least before Lucien could come to her aid. _No one knows better than a whore just how long a minute can be,_ Jean thought grimly. Ten minutes was an eternity, but she had to _try._

"Not just yet, Major," she told him, still smiling. "There are rules."

Alderton frowned. "I thought we agreed, Mrs. Beazley," he said in a soft, terrible voice, "those rules do not apply to me."

"I made an exception as regards the timing of our appointment. I'm afraid I simply will not budge on the other matters. If you won't agree to my terms you can leave now."

It was a gamble, and Jean knew it. The Major carried a gun, and she was standing alone with him in her parlor with no one to call for aid, and the Major knew where her son lived, where her granddaughter slept, knew all sorts of secrets and had more power than all of the upjumped businessmen she'd entertained in the past combined. If she pushed him he might leave, and that would put Jean and Christopher both in danger; if she pushed him he might push back, draw his gun and force the issue. But something told her that having come this far the Major might be willing to play along just to get what he wanted without fuss or bloodshed. He might think her weak, and indulge her. She prayed he would, at any rate.

"Let's hear your terms," he said. "And then I'll decide if I intend to honor them."

Jean wanted to be relieved, but they had such a very long way to go.

"First," she said slowly. "No kissing. Agreed?"

The Major laughed. "How quaint," he sneered. "As if I wanted to, anyway. Yes, agreed."

Jean tried not to bristle at his cruel derision; better to keep a level head, she knew.

"Second, you wear a condom. Agreed?"

"For my protection or for yours, Mrs. Beazley?"

He was a very tall man, and the way he loomed over her now left Jean feeling small, and more frightened by the second, but she tried to swallow her fear, and hide it behind her smile. _Lucien is coming,_ she reminded herself. _All you have to do is keep him talking until Lucien gets here._

"Both," she answered. "I'm not questioning your character, Major Alderton. But I'm not too old to take certain things into account."

"No, I don't suppose you are," he said, leering at her, letting his gaze travel up and down her body in a way that made her stomach heave with disgust. "Agreed, then."

"Third. You've purchased a night. That means you leave at sunrise. Agreed?"

"Yes, yes, all right. Bloody hell, how many rules do you have, woman?" he grumbled, clearly growing impatient with the volley of questions and answers between them.

"Two more," she told him. "You pay first, and if you want something more...exotic I reserve the right to decline. Agreed?"

How many times, Jean wondered, had she endured such a conversation, down through the years? The questions and the answers, the rules had not changed once since the moment she first set foot inside the Lock and Key. Even now, with this terrible man in front of her, facing a calamity she did not even want to contemplate, the game unfolded in the same way it always had. Or perhaps not always; though she had taken the time to inform Lucien of the rules and insure that he would follow them before she ever led him back to her bed everything had been different, with him. She had _wanted_ him, even that first time, could recall so clearly the electricity that seemed to crackle between them, could recall how close he'd stood to her, and how she had not backed away. With Lucien, she had been excited, eager; with Lucien, she had felt desire. Now, however, she felt only the cold sting of fear, felt with each passing second as if she were falling deeper and deeper into filth and depravity. If this loathsome man touched her, she feared no soap on earth would be strong enough to wash the dirt from her soul.

"Yes, all right," he said with a shrug. "Agreed."

And with that final agreement in place he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a wad of bills, handing them over to her with a flourish.

"Thank you very much, Major," Jean said as she took his money. "Now. Why don't you have a seat on the sofa there and make yourself at home while I slip into something a little more comfortable?"

Another gamble, another risk; if only she could get to her bedroom she could tuck his money away out of sight, and she could take a deep breath, and maybe, maybe if she were brave enough, bold enough, reckless as Lucien and twice as wild, she could reach into the drawer of her bedside table and pull out the pistol that had languished there for nearly two decades now. It was one of the only pieces of Christopher that still remained to her, and she kept it in fine working order, though she had never dreamed, even for a moment, that she might consider pointing it at another person.

She was considering it now.

"I want what I paid for," the Major growled, stepping closer to her. Though every nerve in her body screamed out against it Jean stood her ground, and did not back down as he drew near.

"You paid to be entertained, Major," she told him. "And I can promise you, there are a good many things far more entertaining than stockings and a girdle. Take your jacket off, make yourself comfortable. I'll be back in a moment."

And then, before he could protest again, she turned and walked towards her bedroom, holding her breath, straining hard to listen for his footfall behind her, but it never came. As she stepped into her room she turned to close the door, and watched the Major fling his jacket over the back of the sofa before sinking down on it, and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

Lucien was coming, and she prayed he would come fast, but Jean had learned long before that sometimes the only person who could save her was Jean herself. She hadn't needed a man before; perhaps she didn't need one now.

* * *

Maureen went upstairs the moment the dining room was clear. She wanted Paul to come with her, to storm through Mrs. Beazley's door and bring the Major down between the two of them, but Paul had reminded her - rightly - that that wasn't the plan. The plan required them to wait for the Doc - and Danny and the Superintendent, now - to arrive, to find strength in numbers, and not to tackle an armed Army Major with nothing but their wits and their own two hands. Paul was waiting downstairs, to let the Doc in as soon as he arrived, but Maureen couldn't bear to be so far away from Mrs. Beazley when so much danger hung in the air.

It was a strange and terrible feeling, loitering helplessly in the corridor outside Mrs. Beazley's suite. To Maureen's mind Mrs. Beazley had always been so strong, and so brave, almost invincible, utterly unassailable. Even the most difficult customers always treated her with respect, and everyone followed her rules without question. No one had ever said a bad word about her in Maureen's hearing, and before the Doc turned up no man had ever laid a finger as far as Maureen had seen. Mrs. Beazley was somehow above all that, so far removed from the seedy acts that kept her ledgers in balance. Now, though, now Mrs. Beazley had been revealed at last to be no more than a woman, alone with a terrible man, and Maureen's heart cried out in protest at their unbearable circumstances. She deserved so much better, Maureen thought, and Maureen knew she could never live with herself if something awful happened to Mrs. Beazley while Maureen stood by and did nothing to stop it.

Danny had asked for twenty minutes, but only ten had passed. Ten more minutes was an eternity, as far as Maureen was concerned.

Unable to bear it a moment longer she approached the door to Mrs. Beazley's suite and pressed her ear against it, listening hard, her hands trembling with adrenaline and terror, holding her breath, desperately searching for some sign of what was happening inside.

* * *

The moment Danny's voice called out from the front door Sergeant Hannam was off like a shot. He disappeared into the night as smoothly, as silently as he had arrived, no trace of him left behind, and though that troubled Lucien a great deal, Danny's arrival troubled him more. It took no more than a moment for Danny to explain the situation - that Alderton was already at the pub, that someone had cut the line to Lucien's phone, that Jean was in danger - and he was still talking when Lucien grabbed his jacket and ran for the door, Danny and Matthew hot on his heels. They piled into Matthew's police car together, and raced off into the night. _Not fast enough, not nearly fast enough,_ Lucien thought as Matthew sped through the deserted Ballarat streets. His hands were shaking, his heart was pounding, his every thought focused on Jean. He would never forgive himself, if she were hurt for the sake of her connection to him, if Alderton wrought some horror there in her home, and Lucien arrived too late to stop it. He could have wept, so great was his distress, but he only steeled himself, and tried to prepare for what was to come.

* * *

Maureen's ear was still pressed to the door, and so it was that the sudden sound of a gunshot nearly sent her careening back against the wall; it was a hideous sound, so loud and so close, and Maureen could not help but scream, a thousand terrible thoughts running through her mind. One second she was recoiling, and in the next she had launched herself at the door; there had come shouts from some of the other rooms still occupied, and Paul's footsteps were heavy on the stairs, but Maureen paid them no mind. All that mattered to her, in that moment, was Mrs. Beazley. Mrs. Beazley who was good as a mother to her, Mrs. Beazley who was the only person in the whole world Maureen loved, Mrs. Beazley, who did not deserve to die at the hands of such a loathsome creature.

What she found when she barreled into the parlor, however, was a very different scene from the one she had expected.

The Major was writhing on the floor, swearing and clutching his bloody hand to his chest, and Jean stood above him, beautiful and vulnerable and wild-eyed in her best black silk negligee, the lace that covered her breasts heaving with each ragged breath she took, a gun clutched in her trembling hands and pointed squarely at the Major.

"Get his gun, Maureen," Mrs. Beazley barked at her, and Maureen looked around her, shocked to find another pistol on the floor halfway between herself and the Major.

At the sound of Mrs. Beazley's command the Major lunged for his weapon, but his bulk and his injury made him slow, and Maureen beat him to it. Without a moment's hesitation she kicked him hard right where she knew it'd hurt him most, and he let forth a howl like a wounded animal and rolled away from her. Maureen stooped and picked up his gun, and then she went to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Mrs. Beazley, both of them pointing their weapons at the Major now.

"All right?" Maureen asked her softly. There was a red mark across one of Mrs. Beazley's pale cheeks that Maureen liked not at all, but otherwise she seemed unhurt, and Maureen's admiration of her was growing by the second, for she never would have imagined, before now, that Mrs. Beazley even owned a gun, let alone that she would have the presence of mind to pick it up, and the fortitude to use it.

The Major was still groaning - Maureen really had kicked him quite hard with the pointy toe of her favorite pumps. _I hope he bleeds,_ she thought grimly.

In the next breath Paul had burst through the open doorway, skidding to a halt with an almost comical look on his face as he took in the sight before him.

"Bloody hell, Mrs. Beazley," he said, looking from Jean's wildly trembling hands to the bleeding, groaning mess of a man on the floor in front of her.

Jean laughed, and only then did Maureen realize she was crying.

* * *

Matthew had not even pulled the car to a stop before Lucien was leaping out of it; _get to Jean, get to Jean,_ he repeated the mantra over and over again. Just the thought of Jean alone with Derek, his hands on her skin, the terrible, unthinkable things he might do, might do because of _Lucien,_ because Lucien loved her, because he had been too reckless, because he had not been there for her when she needed him most, left him nearly shaking with rage. _If he's hurt her, I'll rip him limb from bloody limb,_ Lucien thought, but he need not worry; before he even reached the back door it was opening, and then the strangest procession he had ever seen came trooping out of it.

The first face he saw was Derek's, flushed crimson and mad with frustrated rage; that boxer bloke Paul walked behind him, Derek's hands bound with a length of something - ribbon? Rope? _The tie from Jean's dressing gown,_ Lucien realized, somehow both horrified and impressed - and Paul's arms were locked around his, holding him all but immobilized. Behind Paul there came Maureen, wild-eyed, her riot of auburn curls tumbling around her pale face, a gun - _a gun? -_ clutched in her trembling hands. And then, at the rear, came Jean. Jean, barefoot and wearing nothing but a thin satin negligee - one Lucien realized he had once peeled off her himself - carrying a pistol, grim faced and also, inexplicably, carrying a pistol. For the moment Lucien could no more than stare; _what the bloody hell happened here?_ he wondered faintly.

Paul had led Derek to Matthew and Danny, and they were speaking softly, but Lucien paid them no mind, for as Jean stepped into the feeble glow of the streetlamp he saw that her cheek was red, as if she'd been struck, and rage burned through him hot and fast as lightning.

"Are you hurt, my darling?" he asked her urgently, reaching for her at once, his hand finding hers - the one not currently holding a gun - their fingers twining together as she clung to him.

"I'm fine, Lucien. He hit me. But only once." Jean's voice was as unsteady as her hands, but she kept her chin up, her back straight, and Lucien was almost overcome with admiration for her, this brave fierce creature who had stood toe-to-toe with horror, and come out the victor.

"Don't worry, Doc," Maureen said from just beside them; she was standing close to Jean, as if keeping guard over her, as if she would gladly throw herself between Jean and any further danger. "Mrs. Beazley got her own back."

Lucien looked to Jean questioningly, and tears gathered in the corners of her glorious eyes.

"I shot him, Lucien," she said in a trembling voice.

"Only in the hand," Maureen explained, but Lucien barely heard her. Jean was a gentle soul, he knew, compassionate and tender, and she had never experienced a horror like this before; he could only imagine how it must have been tearing her up inside, to have done such a thing - even to a man as dangerous and cruel as Derek - and so he threw caution to the wind. Never mind that people were watching, never mind that she was only half-dressed, never mind that he was the police surgeon and such behavior was beyond inappropriate; Lucien used the hand still holding hers to draw Jean into his arms, and she went with him willingly, tucked her head beneath his chin and began to sob while he held her close.

"It's all right," Lucien whispered against her soft. "It's all right. You're safe now, my darling. You're safe."

For a long moment he simply stood, holding her, relishing the heat of her in his arms, drawing comfort from the knowledge that she was _safe_ , and whole, that Derek had not done the unthinkable, that he had not been able to obtain whatever it was he wanted from her. Jean was _safe,_ now, and he made a silent vow in that moment to watch over her, always, for all the rest of his days, to do whatever was in his power to make sure she never knew horror like this again.

"Doc?" Danny called out softly behind him.

Reluctantly Lucien released his hold on Jean, and turned to face Danny, to take in the scene unfolding in the carpark. Derek was sitting in the back of the police car, Matthew standing in front of the open door, speaking to him, and Lucien realized then this thing was not over; it was only just beginning. There would be interrogations, and witness statements, and all the red tape the army could muster; the fight ahead would be a long one.

"I need to take their guns and their statements," Danny told him, gesturing vaguely towards Jean and Maureen.

"Right." _And I need to talk to Derek,_ Lucien thought grimly. The time had come for his old friend to give an accounting of himself, and Lucien intended to hear every word of it. Jean handed her gun over to Danny, and Lucien saw the way the lad's eyes skittered away from her, and it occurred to Lucien then that it would be cruel to leave Jean standing there in nothing but her thin negligee. She was always so proper, always so well put-together, always so mindful of appearances; she deserved better, he thought, and so he slipped the jacket from his shoulders and wrapped it around Jean at once, and she smiled up at him, though her eyes were terribly sad.

"I'll be right back," he told her, leaning forward to brush a kiss against her forehead. The sight of Jean, beautiful but vulnerable, brave but broken, standing there in her silk and her lace and his jacket, was one that would haunt him for all the rest of his days.


	64. Chapter 64

_23 January 1960_

"Might I speak to him alone for a moment, Matthew?" Lucien asked.

The superintendent shot him an incredulous look, as if Lucien had just asked permission to kill Derek Alderton, rather than simply speak with him. It was perhaps a bit unorthodox, Lucien knew, but there were questions he needed to ask, questions he was certain Derek would not answer on the record, in an interview room. There would be the official account of the events that had transpired here tonight, Derek's arrival and the subsequent violence, the way Jean and Maureen and Paul had subdued him, and all of that would go into Matthew's report, but Derek's motivations were personal, and Lucien needed to hear the truth from the man himself.

"He hardly presents a risk," Lucien pointed out, gesturing vaguely to the place where Derek sat, handcuffed and bleeding, in the back of Matthew's car. "And I'm unarmed. You know that. Please," he added, belatedly remembering his manners.

"All right," Matthew grumbled, though he was clearly not pleased at the prospect. "You get five minutes. Then I'm taking him to hospital. I imagine he'll need a surgeon for that hand."

 _Such a delicate thing, a hand,_ Lucien thought. The human hand was all fine, fragile bones and silk-thread tendons; a bullet through a hand was rather like a hammer against a window pane, and the process of putting all those pieces back together, in working order, would be precise, and agonizing. Derek might not ever regain full use of his hand, after this - if he was able to keep it all, if the surgeons did not declare it too far gone already. _He's survived worse,_ Lucien thought. And strange, but in that moment he felt a certain sense of relief; even if the surgeons did amputate his hand in the end at least Derek was still alive, at least his recklessness, his madness, had not cost him his life. Derek had told him once _I am a part of you, Lucien, and you will never be rid of me;_ perhaps he had been right, on that score. Despite everything that had happened, despite Lucien's rage and his disgust and his grief over what time and war had made of the man he had once called _brother,_ Derek was still a part of him, and Lucien was not prepared to lose him entirely.

His request had been granted and a time limit set, and so Lucien left Matthew to his business, and approached the back of the police car. As he approached Derek lifted his head, watched him with eyes baleful and full of loathing.

"Come to gloat, have you?" Derek sneered, still proud despite his downfall at the hands of a woman.

"Why?" Lucien asked, leaning heavily against the side of the car. He did not elaborate; he knew he did not need to. Even now, after all this, he knew that Derek would understand him. At his question Derek's shoulders slumped, and a sigh slipped past his lips.

"All these years," Derek said, "I have dreamed of peace in Asia and watched that dream slip out of our grasp. It's madness there, Lucien, and I can't contain it. I can't stop it on my own. War is coming, in Indochina. And our enemies are sniffing around it like vultures. I need good men on my side, people I can trust. You remember how it was, in the old days? There was nothing we couldn't do, so long as we were together."

It was Lucien's turn to sigh; yes, he had felt that way, once. Before the war, when he'd begun to suspect that Derek was having an affair with his wife, the trust between them had thinned, but then horror had come for them, and bound them together, and all previous misdeeds were forgotten. Somehow they had survived it, starvation and cruelty, the lash of the whip that nearly spelled the end of Lucien's life, the bayonet that had nearly been Derek's downfall. For a time after they had carried on, facing the world together, but Lucien had pulled away. It was Lucien who had severed the cord that bound them, Lucien who had set Derek aside, and chosen another life. At the time he had thought his friend was strong enough to carry on by himself; only now did he see how wrong he had been.

"I tried to find Mei Lin," Derek said heavily, and Lucien shot upright, no longer leaning against the car but instead staring into his old friend's face in disbelief. "I thought if I found her everything could go back to the way it was. But then I learned she was dead, and I realized I needed a new plan." He looked down at his hand, winced, and then carried on. "When I found you here in Ballarat, that was no accident. I got wind that you were here, and I felt certain you'd come round. But you refused my offer."

"I'm a doctor, Derek," Lucien said sadly. "I'm not soldier, any more."

"Of course you are," Derek hissed. "You are a soldier, and you are one of the best intelligence assets this country has ever had. You can play at whatever part you like but you and I both know the truth."

"Derek-"

"Do you want to hear the rest of the bloody story or not?"

"Yes, all right," Lucien said, casting a glance at his watch. They were rapidly running out of time.

"I thought it was strange that you would be so comfortable here. You always told me you hated this town. So I sent some of the lads on a...well, let's call it a fact finding expedition, shall we? And one of them told me you were sweet on a whore, and that's when I realized the truth. _She_ was the only thing keeping you here. I thought if you soured on her, you might be looking for an excuse to leave, and I was ready to provide you with one."

As Derek spoke Lucien's eyes drifted toward Jean, standing on the pavement with Maureen and Danny and Paul and Matthew. Barefoot, bare-legged, she was a vision, wrapped in his jacket - which swallowed her completely - the black lace hem of her nightdress just visible beneath it. _Was_ Jean the only thing keeping him in Ballarat? He'd told her so, once. But then there was Alice, and Danny, and Matthew, and Mrs. Clasby, and his father's house, and the murders, and the call of a quiet life in a provincial town; maybe he would have stayed, even without her. He prayed he'd never have to find out.

"What was your plan?" Lucien asked him softly, still watching Jean.

"I made her an offer she couldn't refuse. Six hundred pounds, in exchange for one night. Enough to send her to Adelaide. And once I'd had a bit of fun-" Lucien blanched, appalled by the very idea - "I was going to...remove her from the equation. And take my money with me."

"You were going to _kill_ her?" Lucien, horrified and utterly flabbergasted by the heartlessness of such a plan. This man had been his _friend,_ once, and now talked of killing an innocent woman - after he'd had his _fun_ \- with the same casual detachment most men reserved for talking about the weather.

"One woman, against thousands," Derek said with a shrug. "She'd die, but if it brought you on side, if you helped me avert a total disaster in Indochina...well. That would have been worth the sacrifice, wouldn't it?"

Across the carpark Lucien could see her, the tumble of her soft, dark hair, the way she'd wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off the terror of the night. Jean, beautiful Jean, small and lovely in his jacket, Jean who was so brave, so strong, Jean who meant everything to him, had nearly _died_ , for his sake. Shame and guilt surged through him, overwhelmed by the thought that he had brought this danger to her door, that in loving _him_ she had risked her own life, and not even known it. All he wanted, in that moment, was to go to her, to hold her, to beg her forgiveness and promise never to let her go.

As if she felt his eyes upon her Jean looked up, then, and his heart shattered afresh at the sight of her pale face in the glow of the street lamp. He'd gotten his answers from Derek; he did not wish to hear another word, nor did he wish to ever see this man again. Let the army and the police do with him what they would; Lucien could take no more.

"This is the end, Derek," Lucien told his old friend grimly. "I never want to-"

"Lucien!" Jean suddenly shrieked, and even from this distance he could see that her eyes were round and scared. On reflex Lucien ducked beneath the windows of the car; he had no sooner bent his knees than the sudden sounds of gunshots and screaming and shattering glass swirled through the air above his head like some terrible typhoon. For one mad moment he was transported back through time to the day of the invasion, the horror that had rained down from the heavens, the devastation of the beautiful city that had been his home, the blood of his friends running like rivers through the streets.

He froze only for a moment, however, for Jean had screamed, and she was more vital to him than his own life. Desperate to determine what the bloody hell was going on Lucien eased himself up and looked through the window above his head just in time to see Sergeant Hannam stride into view, and carefully place his gun on the ground at his feet. The back windows of the police car had been shattered, and Derek was slumped against the seatback in front of him, blood and worse sprayed everywhere, and with a single glance Lucien could tell that he was dead already. There was no doubt what had happened; while Lucien had been looking at Jean she had been looking behind him, had seen Hannam march up with his gun in his hand, and when the shots rang out, Derek had been the clear target. Hannam was too much a professional to make such a miscalculation.

Matthew and Danny came racing over, but Hannam remained right where he was, calm and unflappable, and the moment Matthew warily reached for him Hannam extended his hands, and allowed Matthew to take him over at once, to press him face-first against the car while Matthew cuffed his hands behind his back.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?" Matthew demanded, the rage and the adrenaline he felt evident in his voice.

"Sergeant Robert Hannam," the man answered. "Third Regiment. Fourth Division. Army number 2-6-0-5-2."

It was precisely the same answer the man had given the last time they'd had him in custody; no matter how they'd tried he had not spoken a single word other than to identify himself, and Lucien was certain he would not do so now. Whatever Hannam's reasons for doing what he'd done, murdering Derek in cold blood, Lucien would not learn them from this man's lips. He turned away in disgust.

And when he did he once more caught sight of Jean, and something deep within his heart seemed to snap. Without another thought for Derek, or the Sergeant, or the terrible events that had led them all to this place he marched towards her, implacable, relentless, and did not stop until he reached her, and gathered her at once in his arms. Her hands fisted in the back of his shirt, pulling him into her as she shuddered and wept in his arms, painting the skin of his neck with her tears.

"It's all right, my darling," Lucien whispered, tangling one of his hands in her hair and holding her closer still. "It's all right. It's over now."


	65. Chapter 65

_23 January 1960_

"Bloody mess," Matthew grumbled as he approached their strange little congregation, still gathered on the pavement near the back door. He'd already sent Danny inside to ring for reinforcements, Doctor Harvey among them. Lucien was a witness to this murder, and an old friend of Derek's besides, and as such could not be permitted near the investigation, and for once he did not protest. It would have been an impossible burden, to see Derek on a slab in the morgue, to catalog his scars and rattle off the manner of their making for Doctor Harvey, to look down into his unseeing eyes and know that and know that his oldest friend was dead, and Lucien had been unable to stop it. He was weary down to his bones, and all he wanted, in that moment, was to lie down somewhere with his arms full of Jean, to close his eyes and forget, for however brief a time, the horror that had visited them in this place.

"Would it be all right if you took the ladies' statements in the morning do you think, Matthew?" Lucien asked him quietly. He was no longer holding on to Jean, but she still stood close beside him, and Maureen lingered just behind her, unwilling, it seemed, to let Jean out of her sights, and behind her was that lad Paul, looming over both of them, his eyes a little wild.

"Don't see why not," Matthew said. "In fact, it's probably best if the lot of you clear out now, before this place is crawling with people. Mrs. Beazley, would it be all right if Danny and I came back tomorrow morning? We'd like to speak to the three of you," he waved his hand, including Maureen and Paul in the gesture, "and anyone else who might have seen the Major here tonight."

"Matthew-" Lucien started to protest, suddenly worried; did Matthew really mean to include the details of the business transaction between Derek and Jean in his report? If he did, it might well spell calamity for Jean, the end of her business and perhaps even criminal charges, and it seemed cruel, he thought, to punish her in such a way when she had been embroiled in this nightmare through no fault of her own. To his great relief, before Lucien could speak another word Matthew was interrupting him.

"The way I see it, the Major here stopped in for a pint. Didn't he, Mrs. Beazley?"

Jean nodded but did not speak, her expression wary, as if she were wondering, even as Lucien was, what Matthew could possibly be planning.

"And he got into a bit of a scuffle with the muscle on your door didn't he, young lady?" Matthew asked, turning to Maureen. It was her turn to nod; her eyes were narrowed, watching him closely, but Lucien had already guessed what Matthew was about, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"And while you subdued the Major, the young lady behind the bar rang for the police, didn't she, Paul?"

"Yes, sir," Paul said firmly.

"There you have it," Matthew finished grimly, turning back to Lucien. "The Major came here for a drink, nothing more. The Major was arrested for inciting a brawl. Sergeant Hannam, who had no doubt been tracking the Major's whereabouts, killed the man right here in the carpark for reasons as yet unknown. That sound right to you, Doctor Blake?"

"Thank you, Matthew," Lucien said earnestly, offering his friend his hand to shake. It was a kindness, he thought, the way that Matthew had so easily dealt with the problem at hand. With Derek dead there was no need to investigate his dealings at the pub, and perhaps they might even be able to blame the bullet through his hand on Sergeant Hannam as well; the man had, after all, fired more than one shot. Matthew was protecting Jean, shielding her from the need to give formal evidence, neatly ensuring that the nature of her business not become a matter of public record, and Lucien was more grateful for that than words could say.

"Yes, thank you, Matthew," Jean added in a clear soft voice.

"Oh, I'd do anything for you, Mrs. Beazley," Matthew said flippantly. "Now, clear out."

He stalked off toward where Danny stood beside the handcuffed Sergeant, resting against the boot of the car with Derek's body still sprawled across the backseat. Lucien looked away, an odd lump forming in the back of his throat.

"If it's all right with you, Mrs. Beazley, I think I'd like to stay the night," Paul said, and strange, Lucien thought, but as the lad spoke it was Maureen he was watching, hardly blinking. "In the dining room, of course."

"I hardly think we need a babysitter-"

"I would appreciate that very much, Paul," Jean cut across Maureen's protests smoothly. "I'll feel better knowing someone is keeping watch over my girls."

 _So would I,_ Lucien thought. With Derek dead and Sergeant Hannam in custody there was hardly any threat remaining to them, but still, some anxiety lingered, and the thought of a strong lad with a quick fist minding the door was a reassuring one. But that thought led his mind in another, less pleasant direction; how was he supposed to go home, after all of this? He did not want to insinuate himself into Jean's bed unasked, particularly given the scare she'd received earlier in the evening; the very thought was crass and insulting. But he likewise could not bear the thought of being parted from her, and so found himself torn, between the courtesy he felt he owed her and the shrieking need of his own heart.

It was Jean who found the solution in the end; it always was. Gently she slipped her hand into his, his fingers curling against hers instantly, and he drew in a sharp breath as she looked up at him, more beautiful than a painting, sadder than a song.

"That man was in my room," she said heavily, and Lucien's heart sank with grief at the very thought. Her _room,_ her private kingdom, the one place in all the world that was supposed to be inviolable and _hers,_ her been infiltrated by a man who had very nearly killed her, and he ached to think that she might feel unsafe in her own home. "I don't think I want to stay there tonight. Take me home, Lucien?"

It was a request, not a demand; he heard the uncertainty in her voice, but his heart sang in his chest, to hear her asking him for such a thing, to hear her speak that word _home,_ and mean his house, and not her little room upstairs. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, smiling down at her in wonder.

"Of course, my darling," he said at once. As if there was any other answer he could give; she had just offered him the one thing he wanted most in all the world. His thoughts skipped ahead, thinking of driving home beside her, her hand soft and warm in his, but even as they did his heart, so recently cheered, sank once more, as reality began to sink in.

"I'm afraid I don't have my car," he confessed. "Matthew drove us."

And Matthew's car would not be going anywhere any time soon, not with a dead body in the back of it.

"We can take my truck," Jean suggested gently.

And so they did.

* * *

The moment Lucien locked the front door behind them he breathed a sigh of relief. The horror of the evening seemed very far away, just now. It was impossible to even imagine it, really, that Sergeant Hannam had somehow snuck into his home, that Derek had threatened Jean's life, that they had witnessed carnage and been helpless to stop it; if Jean had not still been wrapped in his jacket Lucien might well have dismissed it all as no more than a bad dream, but it was hard to deny the truth of what had happened when he saw her like this, her pale face, her bare feet, the tumble of her hair, her delicate hands peeking out from beneath the too-long sleeves of his jacket.

"Lucien," Jean spoke his name softly, and he went to her at once, let his hands settle on her hips over his jacket, flooded with a sense of reverent devotion as he looked down into her angel's face.

"Will you just…" she started to speak, but then seemed to lose her nerve, ducking her head and hiding her glorious eyes from view. Though the strain of holding himself together threatened to shatter him completely Lucien held his tongue, held his breath, waiting, hoping, and in the next second she found the strength to finish her sentence.

"Will you just hold me, please?" she asked in a small voice.

It was difficult for her, he knew, to be honest about her desires, to face the truth of her own longing, to _ask_ for what she wanted, and not simply provide a service. For so long Jean had been playing a part, her heart buried beneath the weight of responsibilities and expectations, and he rather felt sometimes that she had forgotten, somehow, how to simply _be,_ herself. That she could allow herself such vulnerability now, with him, seemed to him to be both a gift and a responsibility; he owed it to her, he thought, to show her that she was safe, that she could be free to do and say whatever she wished, so long as they were together.

"I will never let you go," he whispered into the darkness between them, reaching for her hand.

Slowly, silently he led her into his bedroom, threw back the covers on the bed and then turned back to her, helped her to slide his jacket from her shoulders. Just like that she was dressed for bed, still wearing her soft satin negligee, but though she was half-bare and beautiful he found that in that moment sex was the farthest thing from his mind. He wanted her, would want her always, but right then all he wanted was to give her what she'd asked for; all he wanted was to hold her, to comfort her, and in so doing comfort himself.

"Here," she said, reaching for his shirt buttons. "Let me."

And so he did, stood still and compliant as a child while she unfastened his buttons, one by one. When she was done he shrugged out of his shirt, and let his hands settle on her hips while she picked at his belt buckle. In a moment his trousers fell in a pile on the floor, and then he and Jean slipped into bed together, she resplendent in her black satin and lace, he wrinkled and exhausted in his vest and trunks. They rolled together in the center of the bed, her face buried in the crook of his neck, his arms tight around her, one of his thighs sliding between her legs, not seeking to incite her, only wanting to be close, as close to her as he could possibly get. They had not bothered turning on the lamp, and so there was no need for him to reach to turn it off; they settled, there in the darkness, and both sighed softly as they sank back against the pillows.

There was so much yet to say, so much yet to be done. Lucien wanted to hear the truth from her, wanted to learn for himself exactly what had transpired with Derek there in her room, how she had come to be dressed like this, how he had drawn close enough to strike her, how she had managed to shoot him. They needed to discuss the story they would give to Matthew come morning, and there was the niggling matter of Derek's six hundred pounds - had he paid her beforehand, as Lucien once had done, and if he had what had become of the money? Would Matthew even think to ask? And Lucien needed to speak, as well, needed to confront the swirling mix of grief and relief that filled him at the thought of Derek's death, needed Jean's gentle wisdom to help him find his way through. There was the not insignificant matter of their future, too; at some point, perhaps some point soon, they would need to speak frankly of their plans.

But all of that could wait, he thought, burying his nose in the soft fragrance of her dark hair, his hands running gentle circles across her back while her own fingertips danced over the ridges of his scars above his vest. The whole bloody world could hang, he thought, for in that moment he held Jean in his arms; he could not ask for more.


	66. Chapter 66

_24 January 1960_

"Do you want to talk about it?" Lucien asked her softly.

Beyond the curtains of his bedroom window the sun had begun to rise, and they had risen with it; Jean had left the sanctuary of his bed first, slipped off to the loo and freshened herself up, and when she'd returned he'd shuffled off himself, scratching at his chest like some great rangy bear. Now they rested, content, together, safe beneath his heavy duvet, far from the terrors that had receded with the night, banished by the coming of the dawn.

 _Did_ she want to talk about it? Jean wasn't sure. A part of her longed to tell him, to share with him everything that had transpired from the moment Derek Alderton walked through her door the night before, to tell him every thought and every feeling she'd had from then until now. A part of her wanted to tell him how dreadful she felt, dirty and used and guilty, so horribly guilty, for inflicting such violence upon that man, no matter how callous and cruel he might have been. But likewise there was a part of her that longed to run, to hide from it all, to curl herself into his arms and pretend it had been no more than a dream. It would have been selfish in a way, she thought, to keep the truth to herself. It was the sort of thing she might have done if Lucien were no more than a customer, if he were not privy to the inner workings of her heart, but she had opened her arms to him, in every way, and she felt it would be wrong to shut him out now, no matter how she might long to. After all, Derek had been his friend, once, and Lucien cared for her, and on account of both of those things she felt he deserved the truth.

"It all happened so quickly," she whispered into the fading darkness around them. Lucien was behind her, his arm heavy at her waist, his beard soft at the back of her neck, and as she spoke she felt him tense. Her story had begun, however, and she knew that she must see it through; perhaps it would be easier, she thought, to speak if she could not see his face. She hoped it would be.

"Maureen rang for you. She told me later the calls wouldn't go through."

"Danny told us," Lucien answered her. "It seems Sergeant Hannam cut the phone line before he broke into my house."

"Before he _what?"_ Jean demanded, suddenly terrified, but Lucien soothed her with a gentle kiss against her neck.

"It'll be my turn to explain later," he said. "Tell me what happened next."

"All right," Jean said, filing all her many questions away for later. "When you didn't answer, Maureen rang for Danny. I was talking to the Major, and he made it very clear he wouldn't take no for an answer. There were too many people in the pub, and I was worried he might hurt someone. I remembered what you said, about taking him upstairs, so...so I did."

"Oh, my darling," Lucien breathed, his voice low and sad. Jean reached for him then, wound their fingers together and held their joined hands close against her stomach. They had once had a mighty row over the very suggestion of Jean taking Derek upstairs, but in hindsight she could see what she had been blind to in the moment; she had only been reaching for an excuse to leave him, and in the end she'd had no choice but to do as he'd suggested. 

"You were right. It was the best way to protect everyone. I thought I could stall him, when we got upstairs, but he was...rather insistent. And that's when I remembered Christopher's pistol."

Though she had never particularly cared for guns Jean _had_ spent her formative years on farms outside of town, and she had long since learned how to handle them properly, and safely. There had been no need for a rifle in town, but that pistol she had kept, not because she needed a weapon, but because it had belonged to _him,_ because Christopher had once held it in his hands, and even now, so long after the warmth of his touch had faded from it, that small reminder of him had been a comfort. And, it seemed, might well have saved her life.

"I changed my clothes. I thought it would buy us some time, and I thought it would help convince the Major that I meant to go through with it. I put on my robe, and I put the pistol in the pocket." And left the robe untied, in the hopes that her bare skin might have been enough to distract the Major from the weight of the pistol in her pocket. "And then I went back out to face him. I thought you were going to come through the door any moment, but nothing I said seemed to slow him down. He...he put his hands on me." His hands had only settled on her hips beneath her robe but above her nightdress, and that one touch enough had been enough to turn her stomach. "I must have flinched. He could see how much I loathed him. And he hit me."

One sharp strike across her face with an open palm. That was all it had taken, for Jean's resolve to shatter. Despite the nature of her business she had never before gone to bed with a violent man, and the Major's behavior had been so appalling she'd felt she had no other choice.

"That's when I pulled the gun. He went mad when he saw it. It was so fast, Lucien, he...he pulled his gun, and he came at me again, and I just...I panicked, Lucien. I wasn't even really aiming at him. His hand must have been raised, that must be how I...well. At any rate it was enough to knock him down, and then Maureen came in. She took his gun, and then Paul was there to help us. We used the tie from my robe to bind his hands. And we decided to wait for you outside."

Of course Lucien knew the rest; Lucien and Danny and Matthew had come screaming into view just as Jean and her friends walked out of the pub, and so there was no need for further explanation. Her tale was through, in one sense; she had divulged every detail of their encounter. What she had not said, the truth that stuck in her throat, was how _wretched_ she felt. She had danced so close to calamity; what if she had reacted differently to his touch? What if she had not thought to retrieve Christopher's pistol? Had she really _shot_ a man? Though she had intended only to scare him, had only acted on instinct, she had inflicted grievous pain on another person for the first time in her entire life, and she felt...horrible, really, felt as if her very body must have stunk of shame and violence.

"I'm so sorry, my darling," Lucien whispered in a broken little voice. "You should never have had to face this. What Derek did…it's unconscionable."

What _had_ he done? Jean asked herself now. Threatened her family, yes, but never in overt terms. Tried to buy the use of her body, but he was hardly the first. Struck her, yes, but was one strike with an open palm worth a bullet?

"You should know," Lucien continued. "He meant to kill you."

Just like that everything changed; Jean had known he meant to use her, but that he intended to _kill_ her had never even occurred her. She had been afraid, yes, but she had not known that her death had in truth been his goal. Unable to bear the thought of it she rolled in Lucien's arms, and he wrapped himself around her at once, crushed her against his chest and whispered his apologies into her hair.

"I'm so sorry," he said again. "It's all because of me that you were ever in danger in the first place. I brought this down on you and I can hardly bear the thought of it. You are...you are so wonderful, Jean, in every possible regard, and I've been a bloody fool."

"No," Jean whispered harshly, her lips brushing against his neck as he spoke. "You didn't ask for this, Lucien. No more than I did."

"He was my friend." Lucien's voice broke on that word _friend,_ and Jean slipped her hands beneath his vest, flattened her palms against his scars and held him closer still. The thought that that man, that terrible man who had come to her home seeking to kill her, seeking to enact whatever horror he could upon Lucien for reasons Jean did not entirely understand, the thought that he had once been Lucien's _friend,_ and spurned that friendship, turned their bonds of brotherhood into hate and violence, burned through her hot as fire. There was no one kinder, braver, gentler than her Lucien, Lucien who had looked at her and seen not a whore, not a madam, not a criminal or another desperate creature only deserving of pity but _her,_ Lucien who had danced with her, kissed her, wooed her with flowers and letters and tender words, Lucien who tried so _hard_ to be a good man; there was no one less deserving of such horror, she thought. And his sweet, gentle heart, reckless and impulsive as it might have been, would suffer this grief for the rest of his life, she knew. She could hear in his voice how he blamed himself, how he could not reconcile the man who had once been his friend with the man who had struck Jean's face, and she wished, _oh_ how she wished there were some words she could say to offer him comfort, but none came to her. Her fingers pressed against the spiderweb of scars that laced his back, feeling the remnant of that pain he would carry with him for all the rest of his days, knowing that the same man who had threatened her life had also once nursed Lucien through those most grievous of injuries. How could a man hold such brilliant light and such terrible darkness within himself?

 _We all do,_ Jean thought.

"What he's done doesn't erase everything that came before," Jean said slowly. "He was a friend to you, once. You can treasure those memories. Even knowing what became of him. The war...the war changed us all, Lucien."

"Yes," he sighed, and his breath ruffled her hair when he spoke. "I wish...I wish sometimes…"

 _What?_ She wondered as his strength seemed to fail him, as he left his thoughts unspoken. Did he wish sometimes that he had died long before, that his body had been buried amongst his friends, that he had not lived to see the world he had fought for? Did he wish sometimes that it had never happened at all, that they, all of them, could have been spared such devastation? Jean knew what it was, to wish for such things. She had wished for them herself. But no amount of wishing could take away the sting of the past, and she was determined to move forward, not to remain trapped by grief.

"It cannot be undone, Lucien. We survived, you and I. We're still here. And I...I love you, Lucien. I do."

And she did; _oh,_ but she did. That love had been growing in her chest almost from the moment that they met, and it was only now, when she had come so close to losing that love, that she found the courage to face it. That love would change everything, she knew. There was no place in her business for love, but for the first time since the day she'd arrived at the Lock and Key Jean was ready, finally, to put love first. To choose _love,_ and set aside everything else for its sake. She would take that love in both hands, and run like hell for the horizon, had chosen, now, to set out for a new adventure, with Lucien by her side.

At her quiet confession he shifted above her, looked down on her with eyes full of wonder, and a tiny door deep within her heart seemed to close, then, locking away her shame and her guilt, and leaving behind only _love_. They were still here, after everything. The threat to their lives was gone, and the future stretched out before them, beautiful and full of promise.

"I love you, my darling," he whispered, one of his broad hands reaching for her face, his palm warm against her cheek.

"Show me, then," she whispered.

And so he did.


	67. Chapter 67

_24 January 1960_

Above him she was glorious, a revelation; above him she was transcendent, resplendent, sweat beading against her skin like diamonds, the church-bell echo of her sweet sighs the most beautiful song he had ever heard. Above him, she was above him, and yet with him, the focus of his adoration, the nexus of his delight, the beginning and the ending of everything, all at once, absolute and infinite. Beautiful, she was beautiful, not like the girls on the silver screen at the Rex, but beautiful like a wildfire, beautiful like the sea in a storm, beautiful in the ecstasy of creation, beautiful like his favorite mug with a chip in the handle, beautiful beyond articulation, beautiful because she was beloved, and not the other way around.

The bedsheets were tangled round his knees and his nose was full of the scent of her, his hair tugging against his scalp where she gripped him for dear life, the heel of her foot drumming against the ruins of his back, her thighs soft at his ears, clutching at him and falling away, surging and receding like the tides. With one of his hands he held her hip, the rounded point of the bone cradled in his palm, his touch an anchor holding them both in place while they rocked together, borne aloft on the churning waves of their passion for one another. Insatiable, his mouth sought to consume her; desperate, her body sought to let him, her sparse curls and his short beard winding together while his tongue swirled against her and the fingers of his free hand drove within her, searching out her secrets, drawing her into the light. He could spend all the rest of his days just like this, devoted to the siren song of her delight, watching in wonder as she rose from pleasure to pleasure in a never-ceasing search for something _more._ She was a wonder, a marvel, a revelation, and there was so much yet to learn about her, so much more they could do together, such heights they could ascend never before imagined; had he ever been moved so perilously by a woman? He had known love, before, and known carnal delights, but he was not sure he had ever known _this,_ this need to see how far she could go, how high he could take her, to search out the limits of their physical restraints and push beyond them, reckless, wild, unfettered by the dictates of their cruel world.

Words tumbled from her lips half-formed; the words themselves meant nothing, but the high keening sound of her voice crying out for him meant everything. _Close_ , she was close to shattering again, he could feel it in the tensing of her body around him, and as she clutched at him, begged for him, swallowed him in the heat and the wet and the rapture of her, it occurred to him that despite the press of his lips against her, despite the fevered working of his tongue delving into her softness, despite the curling, searching quest of his fingers, despite the fervor of his need _she_ was consuming _him,_ drawing him into her, deeper and deeper, making him hers.

There was nothing else he wanted to be.

If he could have perhaps he might have spoken to her, encouraged her, whispered to her of his need and her gloriousness, but his mouth was occupied with a far more rewarding task, and the thought drifted across his mind that she had, at last, found a way to shut him up.

He grinned and redoubled his efforts; he'd found a rhythm that had her panting and writhing and he sought to maintain it, increasing neither his speed nor the force of his fingers thrusting within her, only holding steady, continuing on, implacable, while the sound of her cries built, and built, and the very air seemed to shimmer with promise. His cock was hard and aching for her and he ground his hips fecklessly against the mattress, seeking some relief, thinking wildly that perhaps he would need no more than the sound of her voice to make him come undone himself. If he could hold off, though, if he could find some previously hidden reserve of restraint, they could climb from this height to the next, and the promise of that final pleasure was enough to keep him in place.

It did not come without warning; he had learned, by now, to read the signs in her body, and he could almost feel his own yearning peak with hers, his heart racing in time to the stuttering flutter of her soft heat around his fingers, his breaths sharp and short and matching the staccato gasps that echoed from his beloved. Her back arched, her thighs tightened, her body trembled with strain, and still he sought her out, laved her with his tongue and fucked her with his hand until at last, she broke.

A long, undulating sort of wail left her, her body caught in the rigor mortis of _la petite mort,_ her dark hair cascading across his pale white sheets, and for a moment the entire world seemed to hold its breath, caught up in the spring-loaded coils of her relief, but then she shuddered, and fell back against the bed, her trembling legs relaxing, her arms suddenly slack, her hands trailing down from his head to rest against his shoulders.

The vice-like grip of her sex would not release his fingers, and so he left them where they were, pressed one last tender kiss against her folds and then shifted slightly, pillowed his head on the softness of her thigh and looked up at her, as satisfied as if he had come undone himself though the demands of his still-unsated cock were rising to a fever pitch. He looked up at her, and saw her as she was, the dimpled flesh of her lean thighs, the silvery stretch marks around her soft belly, the points of her ribcage just beneath the curve of her neat breasts, heaving with every ragged breath she took. Perhaps she should have seemed vulnerable in that moment, bare and shivering, but to him she was enduring, incorruptible, indestructible, infinite.

And _Christ,_ but he loved her.

She had changed him, shaken him, desolated and delivered him. Jean had given him a home and a purpose. She had reminded him what it was to share himself with another, what it was to feel joy, to hope. With her he was the best possible version of himself, and there was nowhere else he wanted to be, other than with her. Forever. ' _Til death do us part._

"Lucien," she breathed his name, mustered the strength to lift one of her hands, resting it gently atop his head, the touch a benediction, a blessing. He tilted his chin, pressed himself against her palm and looked up to find her brilliant eyes watching him, brimming with tears.

 _Show me,_ she had said. _Show me._ That he loved her, that he would protect her, that he would consecrate himself to her, that he would follow her for all the rest of his days; that was what he had sought to show her. That they could find their way, together, that the dreams that had grown from the first seeds of their attraction to one another could at last be harvested, a feast for them to share, and not wilting on the vines, that they could find the happiness they both sought; _that_ was what he wanted to show her. He wondered if he had, if he ever could, if any proof would ever be sufficient to convince her that the tragedies and sorrows of her past did not have to define her future. She had given so much of herself away over the last twenty years he knew she wondered if any of her _self_ was left at all, but Lucien knew better. No man could take her spirit from her, her ferocity, her tenaciousness, her compassion, those things were _hers_ , and it was those things he loved.

"Come here," she said, and he moved at once, reacting without thought to the urgings of his beloved. He slid himself up the length of her body, watching as they slotted into place; his cock hard against the yielding softness of her folds, the hair of his thighs brushing against the smooth skin of hers, her pebbled nipples catching against the solid plane of his chest, his hands planted by her shoulders while her own reached up to run over the length of his arms, the tip of his nose findings hers as they met, and sighed, together.

"I don't know what happens next," she whispered, her voice unsteady, still. Her hips rose up, fell away, seeking contact and shying away from it, her body eager and yet oversensitive, still, from his earlier attentions.

And he knew, somehow, exactly what she meant. She was not concerned with the immediate; she was wet and he was hard and they were neither of them blushing virgins. They both knew, innately, what came _next._ But Jean's thoughts had drifted ahead, her eyes lifted to the road that stretched before their feet. The time would soon come when they would need to leave his bed. They would have to face the world, and the terrible things that had come for them in the darkness. And if they were to continue on, in this way, together, he knew that Jean would find it difficult to continue on in her position with the Lock and Key. That place had been her home for so long, now, had been the very center of her world; the Lock and Key had given her the independence she so yearned for, and a way to provide for herself, and a purpose in looking after her girls, and yet if she accepted what Lucien offered her now she believed she would have to give it up. That she would have to sacrifice everything, for his sake. Of course Lucien would never ask such a boon of her; much as he wanted her here, in his home, in his arms, in his bed, always, he loved her too dearly to force away from the life she had built for herself. If she meant to leave it, he would leave that choice in her hands, support her no matter what she chose. How, then, could he answer her?

"Whatever you want, my darling, you shall have," he answered her, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke. "Whatever it is, whatever it takes. The decision doesn't have to be made now, or tomorrow, or next week. But when you're ready, when you know what you want...all you need do is tell me, and we will make it a reality. Together."

Tears were sliding slowly down her cheeks, but he understood it was not sorrow that set them loose; her eyes were round and full of wonder, as if she were looking at him for the very first time.

"You mean that, don't you?" she whispered, her fingers trailing across the back of his neck, sliding up into his hair.

"I love you," he whispered. _Yes,_ he wanted her here, but he knew that he had chosen a fierce, wild creature for himself, and he knew that to trap her in a cage against her own will would be a cruelty, and not an act of love. There would be no gilded cage for his songbird; she would have an open door, and if she chose to join him it would be all the sweeter, for her having chosen.

"I want a _home_ ," she confessed, and that word _home_ contained within it a multitude of sorrow, and of joy. Had she longed for a home, down through the years, remembered the little farmhouse where she had raised her babies and cooked their meals and loved her husband, wanting only to return to it? Did she want the same thing now, a place where her sons would not hesitate to visit her, a door that did not open to every man in town, a bed that was meant for _her,_ and the one she loved?

"I want a garden, and a kitchen, and I never want to count coins again. And I want _you,_ Lucien."

Those things he could give her, and happily; the garden was desolate, now, the sunroom bare and empty, but he would deliver them both into her hands with a happy heart, would take such pleasure in watching her claim them for herself. If she wanted to, if she willed it, and it seemed to him that she did.

"You have me, my darling," he promised her. "Body and soul, you have me." _And everything else besides,_ he thought, but did not say, for he knew his Jean, and he knew that she could read his face like the pages of her favorite book. Everything she wanted existed within this house, was hers for the taking, if only she wished.

"And you have me," she answered, and as she spoke she shifted beneath him, bent her legs at the knees and gasped as his cock pressed that much more firmly against her. This, too, Lucien understood; she'd had enough of talking, for now. They'd said what was needed, and confessed to one another, and now that they were free, and blessed, there was only one thing left for them to do.

Jean's hands abandoned their perusal of his hair and reached instead for his cock, pumping him slowly while he closed his eyes and groaned in bliss. Against him she was hellfire hot and soft, yielding, asking, offering him, and he was powerless to resist such an invitation. While he held himself up with his hands planted on the mattress by her shoulders his hips surged forward, and she guided him, helped him, and as the head of his cock plunged between her dripping folds they sighed, together, content. _Slowly,_ he told himself, though his back was slick with sweat and his every muscle trembled with the need to barrel into her; _slowly,_ he thought, and so sank against her, letting her feel him, all of him, even as he drank in the glorious sensation of _her._ One of her hands reached behind him, found the swell of his bum and pulled her into him, her hips rocking up towards him, encouraging the achingly slow capitulation of his body into hers. With the other she reached for his face, fingertips splaying out against the rise of his cheek, her thumb catching against his bottom lip, holding there. Her back arched, lifted, pressed the glorious softness of her breasts hard to his chest, and all the while he looked down on her in wonder, watching the way her entire body seemed to flush with pleasure, the way she moved, graceful and unbearably erotic.

When at last his body was flush against hers, every inch of his cock buried within her trembling heat, her thighs grasping at his hips while she shivered beneath him, Lucien pressed a gentle kiss against the pad of her thumb where it lingered against his lip. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled up at him, beautiful, serene, relieved and yet eager, and he watched her face as slowly, so slowly, he drew his hips back, sliding almost entirely out of her, holding them both captive for a moment with no more than the head of his cock between her folds, and her brow furrowed, and her hips bucked up against him, and it was his turn to grin, then, as he once more began his descent, as slow now as he had been before.

And so they came together in that place, neither rushed nor fevered but savoring every exquisite second of the pleasure they could draw from one another. It was not only release he sought, though his body was aching for it; it was _her_ , Jean he wanted, Jean he loved, Jean he yearned to be close to, always, forever. They moved together, hands clutching at one another, grasping, begging, taking; he built her up, higher and higher, determined to feel her come apart around him before at last he spilled himself inside her. Gradually his restraint began to slip; she was too beautiful, and he needed her too desperately. As the thrusting of his hips grew more and more determined Jean's hands reached for him; she bound him with her arms, pulled him down atop her, and he fell against her, relieved. His forearms bore the bulk of his weight now, his hips working ceaseless as he drove within her, and Jean just held him, tightly, let him bury his face in the crook of her neck, let him lick the sweat from her skin while she whispered to him how she loved him, how she needed him, how _good_ it felt, to hold him inside her, her breath washing warm and sweet over the curve of his ear. The pace of her panting breaths increased in time to the rising tempo of his thrusts, and in the heat and the wet of them their bodies molded together, melted down into one creature. Her arms around his back, her ankles locked tight around his hips, her skin beneath his lips; at last, she had consumed him, as he had always thought she might, and he could not resist her. Harder, and faster, and harder still he took her, the old mattress creaking alarming beneath them, the wet slap of their bodies driving him mad with need, the beautiful, unbearable softness of her clutching at him. She drove every thought from his head, until all that was left was _Jean._

Beautiful as it was such things were not meant to last forever; the timbre of his groans deepend, and Jean, recognizing how close they were, reached between them, her fingertips circling, circling, circling around the apex of her pleasure, and he could feel her hand against his cock each time he withdrew and returned to her again, and as she gasped and moaned in his ear he felt himself begin to fall, at last.

Jean hit her mark first, mercifully; she tensed around him, glorious, her entire body drawn taut with need, and as she cried out in wordless pleasure, as her sex clenched and fluttered around his aching shaft, Lucien let himself go. Furiously he thrust into her trembling release, and her shaking breaths drew him on, and on.

"Please, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice shaky from her own release, and yet begging him on. "Let go," she breathed.

And so he did; with all the power his body could muster he plunged within her one final time, and the force of his thrust had her mewling with pleasure, and it was that sound he heard, not the bone-deep groan that tore from his own lips, as at last he spilled out his release, and fell against her, boneless and spent.

* * *

In the aftermath of their coming together Jean had very nearly fallen asleep; Lucien rested atop her for as long as he dared, but as soon as he could breathe again he rolled away, and watched as she rolled onto her belly, her face buried in his pillows, her body slack, her legs splayed open while the mess of their joined release ruined the sheets beneath her. Lucien smiled, and kissed the rise of her shoulder, and then he left her, just for a moment.

It was, after all, Jean's birthday, and Lucien had not forgotten, despite the tumult they had endured over the last twenty four hours. He went first to the loo, cleaned himself up and retrieved a warm, wet cloth for Jean, and as he made his way back to her side he stopped by his own bureau, and withdrew the small box containing the present he had purchased for just this occasion. At his bedside he stopped for a moment, watching her, drinking in the sight of her beautiful body, bare and at rest, the elegant curve of her spine, the rise of her bum, the glimpse of her sex, red and swollen and glossy with need, and he grinned, for she was beautiful, and it was the love between them that had left her so relaxed, so comfortable there in his bed, not running from him but resting, on sheets that smelled of him.

Carefully he slotted himself into place beside her; he placed the box on the pillow just in front of her face, the same way he had done at Christmas, and then he reached for her, let his fingertips trail light as a feather from the nape of her neck to the rise of her bum. She shivered at his touch but it was not enough to rouse her; grinning, then, Lucien flatted his palm over her bum, and squeezed her firmly. Jean hummed, and lifted her hips, reflexively, he thought, for they had both exerted themselves far too much to consider further exploration now, but he liked it just the same, the way her body reacted to him. With the cloth in hand he gently cleaned her sex, and that made her hum, too, made her open herself up to him in an act of such simple trust it very nearly brought tears to his eyes. When his task was done he threw the cloth away, and stretched himself out along her back, and as he kissed her neck Jean opened her eyes at last.

"Lucien?" she asked as she caught sight of her present on the pillow. She rose up beneath him, propped herself up on her elbows while Lucien rolled to the side and watched her, grinning.

"Happy birthday, my darling," he said. Perhaps he sounded a bit pleased with himself; perhaps he was.

"It is, isn't it?" she asked, shooting him a cheeky grin over her shoulder.

"Go on, then," he said, his hand gravitating once more to the rise of her bum. He had to touch her, always, longed for the warmth and the softness of her beneath his hands, that reminder of their connection to one another, and she did not begrudge him that need while she carefully untied the ribbon around the box before opening it.

"Oh, Lucien," she sighed, as at last her present was revealed to her. It was not a ring, much as he longed to give her such; Jean had taught him some measure of patience, and he knew that the time was not right, just yet. _Soon,_ he told himself, _but not just now._

For now, for this birthday, he had given her a necklace. It was a single teardrop sapphire, ringed with tiny diamonds, set in white gold, on a white gold chain. The stone was small, the necklace itself expensive but subtle; he knew Jean did not appreciate ostentation in any form. But it was delicate, and finely made, as Jean was delicate and finely made, and the color of the stone had reminded him of the color of her eyes, and he had known the moment he saw it that it was meant for her.

"Thank you," she whispered, her fingertips trailing against the necklace where it sat nestled on its little bed of satin.

"Happy birthday," he said again, and then she rolled into his embrace, and kissed him soundly. The day had started in darkness, but they had burst forth into a beautiful light, and his heart was at peace.


	68. Chapter 68

_24 January 1960_

Having no other option available to her Jean was forced to slip back into the black satin nightdress and knickers she'd been wearing the night before for the journey back to the Lock and Key. Clothes hadn't been among her priorities the night before; she'd been thinking only of escape, of a warm bed with Lucien in it, far from prying eyes, but in the cold light of day she was regretting her choices, somewhat. Ever the gentleman Lucien offered her his jacket once more, and she had taken it gratefully, had sat beside him on the cracked leather bench of her ancient truck, let him drive them both back to the pub, to her home.

Only it didn't feel much like _home,_ just now, and wasn't that strange, she thought; she'd stumbled into the Lock and Key some eighteen years before, had lived there for the last thirteen or so, and though it had once been a refuge, a place of relief and much needed freedom, when she thought of it now she felt only sorrow. Was it truly freedom she had found in that place, when she devoted herself every waking moment to the making of money and the pleasure of others? Was she truly free, when she was not able to love, when her time must of necessity be doled out in one hour increments, when she could not even walk into the greengrocers without attracting stares and whispers? Somehow she thought not, now; somehow she thought that freedom was the way her heart took flight every time Lucien touched her. Somehow she thought that freedom was Lucien whispering _whatever you want you shall have,_ making no demands of her, not bargaining or bartering but promising to be her partner, to help her make her dreams come true, and his own in the process. A bedroom and a parlor and a private bath did not constitute a home, not when strangers were constantly traversing the corridors and the kitchen was made to feed customers, and not a family. A dingy carpark lit by a streetlamp was not a garden, and a place of business was not a home, to Jean's mind. Not any more.

Now when she thought of _home_ she remembered the farmhouse she had traded her very body to save, and lost just the same, thought of the faces of the ones she loved gathered around a table, and the warm scent of the earth on her hands. Now when she thought of _home_ she thought of bookshelves, and dancing with Lucien in the sitting room, and a piano that might sing out again, one day. _Home_ was two arms meant to hold her, and a heart that understood her own. _Home_ was not the pub, any more.

Its name, _The Lock and Key,_ had originally been intended as a double entendre of sorts. A key fit into a lock, as a sword in a sheath, a hand in a glove, a man and a woman. But Jean couldn't help but wonder, now, if it meant something else besides, if those women who had lived and worked beneath that roof had not themselves been held under lock and key, prisoners to circumstance and finances and the whim of whichever man liked the look of them at any given time. Jean had clawed her way to a position of authority, saved herself from the steady stream of strange hands reaching for her skin, but all the little birds who lived beneath her roof traded sex for coins, and passed those coins to her; the house took its percentage from every transaction, in addition to charging rent for the rooms. Jean might not have done the work, any more, but for the first time she found herself acknowledging that her hands were dirtied by it; she had, for so long, repeated to herself over and over that her girls had made this choice, and that she was doing the right thing by offering them safe lodgings, but there was little reassurance to be found in those words just now.

 _I have to be rid of it,_ she thought as Lucien pulled the car in behind the pub. Not in six months, or a year, or three; Jean was itching to be shot of the whole business, the memories of Derek Alderton and the end that had befallen him, the endless parade of hopeless girls, the pouring of the drinks and the quiet leering of the customers. The time had come, she thought, to put an end to it.

"Can I ask you something, Jean?" Lucien asked as the car lumbered to a stop.

Jean hummed, to let him know she'd heard him, his voice pulling her out of the swirling chaos of her thoughts.

"The six hundred pounds. Did Derek give it to you?"

If he'd asked her such a question six months before, she would have lied to his face, and begged forgiveness for the transgression the next time she went to confession. If she were still looking for reasons to be rid of Lucien she would have counted it an impertinence, and reprimanded him for it. As it was, however, Jean was tired of deceit, and she loved him too dearly to lie to him.

"Yes," she said. "It's in my box upstairs."

"Good," Lucien mused, rubbing at his beard. "I don't know that Matthew necessarily needs to know that."

"Oh?" Jean had not been expecting him to say such a thing, and she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about it. Surely it would be wrong, she thought, to hide such a thing from the police, something akin to theft, and whatever else Jean had done, thievery had never been counted among the list of her sins.

"If you tell Matthew you have it, that'll be proof that you agreed to trade sex for money. It might be enough to force the police to investigate the pub more closely, and that would mean trouble for you and your girls. Now, the way I see it, you're owed some compensation for what Derek put you through, and it's not as if he can make restitution to you now. And it's not as if he can come to collect on a broken contract, either. Between you and me, I say that money's yours, and it's no business of Matthew's."

Jean didn't quite know what to make of that. Perhaps it did qualify as theft, for Derek Alderton had paid for a service Jean never intended to provide. But Derek had likewise always intended to kill her and take his money back, and perhaps his ill intent was enough to disqualify his claim to the funds. And Lucien was right; he could hardly collect what he felt was owed him now. If Jean reported it the money would likely be taken into police evidence, where it would be no good to anyone at all. But if she kept it...well, six hundred pounds would balance her ledgers once and for all.

 _One last sin,_ she thought, _and then maybe I could be free of this place forever._

"There's a cottage for rent in Brown Hill," Jean mused quietly. "Paul was telling me about it. It would cost a few pounds a month, and I might need a bit of money for furniture, and to keep me fed while I look for other employment."

Beside her Lucien's eyes had gone wide, watching her closely, and she could almost feel the hope radiating off him, even as it took root within her own heart. Perhaps if she kept that money, Derek Alderton's last vile act could be put to good use; perhaps it was time for Jean to make her own fresh start, and perhaps the means had just been delivered into her hands.

"Jean-"

"I don't think we need to tell Matthew," she declared, cutting him off before his mouth had the chance to run away with him. There was so much left to be said, so many decisions left to make, but in her heart Jean knew that she had chosen her path already. She had chosen freedom, and she had chosen Lucien.

* * *

They must have looked quite a sight, Lucien thought, walking through the back door of the pub; Jean had washed her face and no trace of her makeup remained, her curls had gone a bit flat in the night, entirely too much of her smooth pale skin was on view beneath his oversized jacket, and Lucien walked beside her in a fine navy suit. They found Matthew and Danny and Paul and Maureen waiting for them by the bar; Jean excused herself to go and change, hurried up the stairs as fast as her legs would take her, and Maureen chased off after her, and so Lucien went to join the gentlemen by the bar.

"All right, Matthew?" he asked, clapping his hand on the superintendent's shoulder.

"We were just going over everyone's statements from last night," Matthew told him grimly. "I don't suppose you fancy telling us what the bloody hell part you had to play in all this?"

"Gladly," Lucien said. He plunked himself down upon the nearest stool, and began to tell his tale.

* * *

"Are you all right, really?" Maureen called. She was sitting in the parlor while Jean hurried to dress in the bedroom, the door left open between them so that they might converse even while Jean attempted to preserve what remained of her dignity.

"I am," she called back. "Really, Maureen. It was a terrible night, but it's all been settled now. There's nothing to worry about."

That wasn't entirely true, she thought, but none of the worries that tugged at the back of her mind were life threatening, and that made them seem of little consequence in comparison to the havoc Derek Alderton had wrought.

"I suppose it's just as well that it's Sunday today," Maureen said, and it was only then Jean realized she forgotten entirely about church. _Under the circumstances, I think I can be forgiven,_ she thought. "We will open for business tomorrow, won't we?"

With her dress firmly in place and her curls pinned neatly at the nape of her neck Jean's work was done, and so she marched out to answer Maureen's question face to face.

"I want to talk to you about that, actually," she said.

Maureen frowned, the way she always did when she felt Jean was about to confess to something terrible.

"You know I want to turn the pub over to you, when the time comes."

"Mrs. Beazley-" Maureen started to protest at once, but Jean still had more yet to say, and so she raised her hand, asking for quiet.

"You've got a good head for business and you won't tolerate foolishness. There's no one better equipped to take over for me. And I know it's perhaps a bit sooner than we both imagined, but I think you're ready, Maureen."

"And what about you, Mrs. Beazley? Are you ready?"

Maureen's question was soft, and hesitant, and Jean could not help but smile.

"I am," she said simply. The time had come, and an avenue of escape had been provided to her; Jean felt she would have been a fool to pass over this chance.

"I'll sign everything over to you. There's no need for money to change hands. I paid off the bank years ago, so you would own the entire pub free and clear."

"And it would be mine to do with as I liked?"

Jean could almost see the battle taking place in Maureen's heart. Change was difficult for everyone, and would be doubly so in this instance; while so many of their relationships had been transient and fleeting, Maureen and Jean had clung to one another for years. It would be rather like a child first learning to live without her parents, Jean thought, terrifying and sorrowful and exhilarating all at once. Perhaps a part of Maureen's heart wanted things to remain as they were forever, comfortable, familiar, safe, but she was a clever girl, and she had always been, above all else, a survivor. Whatever happened next, Jean had no doubt that Maureen would flourish.

"It would be entirely yours," Jean agreed. "Do you have changes in mind?"

It was simple curiosity that compelled Jean to ask, rather than any sort of concern over the future of the pub. Once she walked out of those doors she would be gone for good, and it would be no business of hers what became of it. The thought that Maureen had spent time considering it, however, laying plans of her own, was interesting to Jean's mind, and she rather wanted to know what her friend was thinking.

"If you give it to me, Mrs. Beazley, there won't be girls for sale here any more. I won't do it. I'll make this place a proper pub."

It was the last thing Jean had expected her to say, and yet as Maureen revealed the truth of her intention Jean's heart was lighter for having heard it. Maureen had never complained about the work, had in fact always seemed quite content with the pay it brought her, more than happy to give the gentlemen what they asked for as long as she got her own back, never needing reminders to keep her distance, to lock her heart away. Jean had never really worried, before now, whether the work caused Maureen grief. In the moment, however, she could see that grief in the girl's eyes, the long years full of insults she'd suffered, the many wounds and grievous losses that had piled up until she could stand it no more; Jean understood it, for in her heart she knew she had paid the same price. And if she delivered the pub into Maureen's hands, no girl ever would again, not beneath this roof.

"I think that would be wonderful," Jean told her, her voice thick with emotion. It had not been within Jean's power to do such a thing, when the pub fell into her hands. She'd had the bank to pay, and she did not sell enough food and drink to cover the mortgage, and even once that debt was made good she had lingered, stuck in a rhythm that had felt familiar, and unbreakable. Now, though, Maureen would have no such concerns. She could do what Jean had never been quite brave enough to attempt, and start the long, arduous process of cleaning up the building's long-standing reputation, making it a place for everyone, and not just those who sought release under cover of darkness. It was everything Jean had ever hoped for, and she was so proud of Maureen she could have burst. Unable to find the words to convey the depth of her relief, and her joy, she only reached for her friend, and pulled her into a fierce embrace.

* * *

"So that's it, then," Matthew said, looking over his notes. They'd discussed it all, Derek's dastardly plot, the way he had come to Jean's home and how Jean and her makeshift little family had dealt with him, how Sergeant Hannam had come to Lucien's home looking for news of Derek's whereabouts. It was Matthew himself who explained that piece of it, told Lucien that Sergeant Hannam believed Derek had become a liability and a disgrace, and sought to put him down before he brought further calamity upon himself and the army. Sergeant Hannam had followed them the night before, when they went tearing through the streets on their way to the pub, and he had waited until most of the bystanders were well back before taking his fatal shot. _Considerate to the last,_ Lucien thought bleakly.

"Yes," Lucien said. Yes, that was it; there was nothing more to say on the subject of Derek Alderton.

At that moment there came the soft sound of voices from the stairwell, and Lucien watched as Jean and Maureen stepped into view. A soft, warm smile split his face at the sight of Jean, made-up and put together now, walking with her protege. She had no daughters of her own, he knew, but that girl beside her, with her fiery hair and her fierce spirit, she was Jean's legacy, and he knew that Jean adored her. Lucien did, too, in his own way; though he did not have Jean's long history with the girls he had come to know them all over the last month or so, come to care for them, and he spared a moment to wonder what might become of them, with their mother gone.

"One of these days, Lucien, you're going to have to tell me what the bloody hell you're thinking, getting mixed up with her," Matthew grumbled, and when Lucien looked at him he found Matthew's eyes were watching the ladies, as well.

Lucien smiled. "One of these days, Matthew, I will," he said.


	69. Chapter 69

_23 December 1960_

"Honestly, Lucien," Agnes was saying as she rose from the chair across from him, holding her handbag defensively, the way some men held cricket bats. "I would have thought you would have more important things to do today."

"You rang _me,_ Agnes," he pointed out, smiling. Though she could be irascible and stubborn and judgmental, Agnes Clasby remained his single favorite patient, for she never hesitated to say precisely what she thought, and he knew that beneath her gruff exterior there lurked a kind heart, one that cared for him as much as he did for her. "And besides, all the arrangements are in place. There's nothing left for me to do now but show up."

"Sober," Agnes added, and Lucien laughed aloud. "I'll say it now, since I doubt you'll have much time for me at the reception tomorrow. Congratulations, Lucien."

He reached across the desk, offered her his hand to shake, and she took it. For an older lady she certainly had a firm grip, that Agnes Clasby. "And pass my regards along to that fiance of yours, as well," she continued. "Between you and me, she's the best thing that ever happened to your practice. You be sure to treat her well, Lucien."

"I do," he said, "and I will."

"Good, then." Without another word Agnes turned and departed, clutching the new prescription Lucien had written out for her against her chest.

There were no more patients on the schedule today; there had in fact been none on the schedule at all, but Agnes had rung him, and at Jean's urging Lucien had agreed to see her. He had rather hoped, before now, to spend this entire day alone with Jean, but in the end he found that the half-hour he'd spent with Agnes had not cost him so very dearly, and it had left him in high spirits. She always seemed to have that effect on him, did Agnes, even when she was admonishing him for misbehaving.

Whistling softly to himself, then, Lucien went out in search of his beloved.

It wasn't very difficult to determine where she'd gone; it was a beautiful, warm summer day, and he found her, just as he had suspected, sitting on the low sofa in the sunroom. For a moment he leaned against the doorway, watching her, smiling.

What a picture she made, his Jean, in this sun-dappled kingdom that was now entirely her own. Though Jean had been for the last eleven months living in a neat little cottage in Brown Hill she had spent her fair share of time in Lucien's abode as well, and everywhere he looked he saw her fingerprints, and was glad of it. The sunroom was perhaps the most dramatic example; before Jean it had been dry and dusty and desolate, utterly bare save for an ancient wicker sofa. With her own funds - funds Lucien was fairly certain had been supplied by Derek Alderton, though he did not dare question her on the matter - Jean had purchased a nice sofa and two matching armchairs, and then she had set to work. The tables groaned beneath an array of terracotta pots, holding begonias and orchids and strange little flowers whose names Lucien could never hope to learn. Soft, pink-petaled blooms climbed up the trellis set in one corner, and in another a sprawling tomato plant leaned precariously to the side, its vines heavy with fruit. _They taste better if you grow them at home,_ Jean had told him, and Lucien - being fond of a tomato on his sandwich, and even more fond of his fiance - had not attempted to dissuade her. Beyond the polished glass windows of the sunroom the garden itself was a sight to behold; the grass was neat and even, now, a few of Lucien's shirts fluttering on a line Jean had strung up herself, the flowerbeds planted round the perimeter of the fence redolent with bright, growing things. A rose bush climbed up the windows of the sunroom, and beside it there bloomed a strange, spiky plant that had made Jean weep when she planted it there, though she had offered no explanation for her tears or the origin of that strange bush, nor had Lucien asked for one.

Her apron hung on a hook just inside the kitchen now, and her knitting sat in a basket beside his sofa. The rest of her things would come in time; books and clothes and bottles of perfume and boxes of photographs and memories aplenty, but in his heart she dwelled within that house already, had already begun to make it a home.

Which was not to say the process had been entirely easy; the last year had been full of tumult, as much sorrow as joy. When Jean moved into her little cottage she had begun to talk of finding some employment for herself, needing a way to fill her days and determined not to let Lucien pay for everything she needed himself. Lucien, seeing an opportunity to both provide her with a paycheck and spend more time with her in the bargain, had offered her the position of his receptionist. Mrs. Penny was a perfectly nice lady, but she was getting on in years, and her organizational skills left something to be desired. Jean had run her own business for over a decade, and was possessed of a quick and clever mind, and a mother's intuition when it came to minor medical conditions. It was Lucien's thought that Jean would be a perfect fit for such a position.

But then it turned out Jean had been cross with him for even suggesting it, thinking he meant to control her purse strings, and then when he tried to discuss the situation with Mrs. Penny she had, to his utter shock, up and quit, and said several unkind things about Jean on her way out the door. Jean thought that was a sign of worse to come; _people don't want to see me in your house, Lucien. They don't want to hear my voice on the phone. They won't trust me. You'll lose your practice, and then what will you do?_

 _The practice can hang,_ Lucien had told her.

Lucien suspected it was his rather cavalier disregard of his professional future that forced Jean's hand; she had always cared more for his reputation than he did. Seeking to save him from himself, then, she had reluctantly agreed, but after a single day she had settled into the job quite comfortably, ordering him about, reorganizing his filing system, taking over the bookkeeping and the patient scheduling. Yes, a small handful of patients had taken their business elsewhere, when they saw Mrs. Beazley sitting behind the desk in reception. Most of them, however, did not want to confess precisely how they had come to know about her history, and in an effort to preserve their own dignity carried on as if nothing were amiss. And after a few weeks, it all seemed...quite normal, actually.

Of course Mrs. Penny's departure had left Lucien without a housekeeper, and that presented a whole host of new complications. He did his best to carry on for a few days, but it was Jean, as ever, who recognized the problem, and sought to correct it.

"Lucien," she'd said to him quietly one evening as they sat together enjoying a simple meal Jean had prepared for them in the kitchen of her cottage. "I've been thinking."

Lucien had hummed, curious, and she had looked him in the eye, seemingly strangely nervous, though her back was ramrod straight. "I don't think you ought to hire a new housekeeper."

"Oh?" he'd asked, surprised by the suggestion. He would have expected to her say precisely the opposite; he could not wash his own clothes, or cook his own meals, and when it came to the dusting and the sweeping and the vacuuming of the rugs he was utterly lost. Besides, a bachelor keeping his own house raised eyebrows in the town, particularly one of his means; he had thought, before now, that Jean would insist on his bringing on someone new.

"I'd quite like to keep my own house," she'd told him, a sweet crimson blush creeping slowly across her cheeks. "I don't think I could bear paying someone else to do it."

That was the night he'd decided the time was right for him to propose to her, properly, for that was the first time Jean had admitted, however obliquely, that when she thought of the future she saw the pair of them, together. The reason she had given for Lucien not hiring a housekeeper had relied entirely on the assumption of her presence in his home; she had made up her mind already, and nothing could have made him happier.

And so they had carried on, over the course of the year. He had proposed, she had accepted, the invitations had been mailed, and a strangely relieved looking Father Morton had agreed to oversee the service. Flowers had been purchased, suits tailored, food and drink enough to feed an army had been laid aside for them at the Colonists'. Young Christopher's wife was expecting again and was in no condition to travel, but she had rung Jean herself to confirm that the lad would be in attendance, on the day, and would stay to celebrate Christmas with his mother for the first time in a decade. Presents had been purchased, then, for all their friends and loved ones, and a fine roast had been laid in the refrigerator for a Christmas luncheon, attended by their nearest and dearest, the day after the wedding. Train tickets had been purchased for the following Monday, to take them to Melbourne, and passage had been booked for a ship to bear them off to a honeymoon in Paris. Everything was in place; Jean had taken to looking after his house, taken to looking after him, and he had, in his own way, taken to looking after her. He danced with her laughing through the sitting room, and tried his best to be considerate of her needs, gave to her every piece of himself, and in the giving sought to bring them both to a place of happiness, together. All of it, every moment, every stolen kiss, every short-lived argument, every awkward false step and every contrite apology, every sidelong glance from a stranger in the street, every meal they'd shared with Matthew and Alice, all of it had been building to now, to this. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve; tomorrow, he would marry her at last.

"I can feel you staring," Jean said archly, taking a sip of her tea, though she did not look at him. It was an art she had perfected, watching him without giving any obvious evidence of her interest, and it delighted him.

"Can you blame me?" he asked. "I have quite the most beautiful fiance any man could dream of. I was admiring the view."

"Come and sit with me," Jean said, and so he did at once, rushed to join her there on the sofa. He slung his arm easily around her shoulders, and she leaned against him, and they both sighed in bliss.

"I keep thinking I've forgotten something," she murmured.

Lucien laughed and pressed a gentle kiss against her hair. "It's all been sorted, my darling," he reassured her. "Young Christopher's train gets in this afternoon, and we'll go and fetch him together. He'll come with Matthew and I to the Club tonight, and they'll make sure I behave myself without you there to watch over me."

Jean smoothed her hand over his thigh, and he tried not to shiver at her touch. How long had it been, since last they lay stretched out naked in a bed together? No more than a week, he thought, but too long, entirely too long.

"You will go and stay with Maureen, and in the morning, Alice will come and join you."

The most remarkable transformation of the last year, to Lucien's mind, was the change the Lock and Key had undergone. The moment ownership of the pub passed into her hands Maureen had ended the sale of sex beneath her roof. Some of the girls had left, seeking to do their business elsewhere, but a few had stayed, found decent jobs in the town and tried to make an honest go of it. She'd opened up the rooms upstairs for rent to honest travelers seeking less expensive accommodations than the Royal Cross, and her kitchen opened at lunchtime, now. There was a proper ladies' lounge and everything; the Lock and Key had become just another pub, and the fact that it was a favorite of the local police helped to keep any hints of trouble to a minimum. Jean's wedding dress even now was stored in her old suite upstairs, a suite Maureen had taken as her own, and Jean would spend one last night in that place before donning her dress and making her way to the church.

"And then, my darling, I'm going to marry you."

Jean lifted her chin, looking up at him with eyes as blue and as bright and as wide as the sea, and then she smiled.

In that smile he saw it all, every challenge, every obstacle, every grief and every joy they had faced together, from the moment they met until this one. Lucien had taken one look at her face and fallen headfirst into a wild, madly spinning love, but he had landed, safe and warm, in precisely the place he felt he was always meant to be. His home was full of love, and joy, and the warm scent of flowers, and Jean was safe, and well, and happy, and _he_ was happy, for he had never known another woman like her, and the life they had built together was so full of friends and family and hope for the future that he had almost forgotten that man he had been before, gloomy and lonesome, staring out into the darkness. She was the sun, his Jean, and in her radiant light his heart had burst into bloom.


End file.
